


Subspecies: Bloodpact

by Memoriam



Series: Subspecies: Bloodstained [1]
Category: Subspecies
Genre: Gen, Horror, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-28
Updated: 2008-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-02 16:18:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 61,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Memoriam/pseuds/Memoriam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Radu Vladislas may prove the lesser of two evils when Michelle is forced to attempt to undo the devil's deal Rebecca has made in a bid to save her soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She was drowning.

 

Heavy, thick, black and cloying, her limbs were bound, her arms pressed so tightly against her torso it seemed that her biceps must pop from their sockets, a dull agony radiating from the joints of her shoulders. She couldn’t move, couldn’t thrash, couldn’t _breathe_, so badly needed only a single sip of air; but her chest was frozen, lungs still, borne down by the omnipresent weight of the darkness. It was nothing, she _knew _that it was nothing, yet it chained her more thoroughly than manacles ever could have. All she needed was the smallest opportunity, the ability to twitch her littlest finger, something, _anything _that would allow her the opening to prise open a crack that would free her, release her, _allow her to rise—_

 

Michelle Morgan shot bolt upright, gasping frantically. She reached up to clutch her chest, assure herself that she was still corporeal, and dismiss that overwhelming feeling of captivity. A frightened whimper escaped her when her arms dragged heavily as she tried to raise them; she realized that she was still shrouded, encompassed in thick, stiff blackness, and moaned disconsolately as she began to paw frantically at that which enveloped her. It yielded, twisted; wound itself ever further around her, until with the strength born of panic and despair she shoved her fingers through it. It yielded with surprising ease and, encouraged, she tore wildly at it, shredding it with little difficulty. But her flailing hands struck a solid, unyielding surface; balling up a fist, she slammed her knuckles against it, and never thought she would ever be as happy again to see it pop open and reveal the first stars of twilight.

 

She hauled herself towards it, but lurched and fell heavily, gravel and pebbles abrading the palms of her hands. Choking on a sob, she kicked frantically, her legs still tangled in that which had constrained her. She managed to roll onto her back, something sharp and thin digging cruelly into her spine, and clawed viciously at it. It quickly parted and she scissored her legs free, twisting away to land on the ground in an unceremonious heap. Panting, she righted herself, crouching on her haunches and sagging against the shape behind her, unable for the moment to do anything save revel in her escape.

 

After a moment, she swallowed thickly and began to take in her surroundings. Stones pressed painfully through the thin soles of her shoes, but that discomfort took a dim second place to the perishing, thirsty dryness of her throat. She hadn’t been in there long, she _knew _she hadn’t… been… in…

 

_...the trunk. Oh, _shit, _Michelle! _She laughed shakily as the realization sank in, a high, thin sound that she only emitted to keep from weeping. No drowning. No shackles of shadow. No supernatural captivity. Merely a nightmare, and an encounter with the unexpected constraints of her new lifestyle.

 

Still unsteady, she shoved herself to her feet; the bumper of the car she’d been leaning against sank on its shocks and squeaked in protest. She turned to survey the damage she’d caused in her panic, and shook her head in dismay. The body bag was ruined, the heavy, plasticized fabric little more than tatters remaining scattered throughout the car’s trunk, and she had no idea how they were going to replace it. Perhaps they wouldn’t need to; while there was little that could beat it for sheer opacity, she’d done alright with the shower curtain of the hotel she had originally attempted to flee to. A tarp should do; perhaps even a sleeping bag. She smiled, a small, wistful quirking of her lips. She had never been one to adhere to stereotypes before, and saw no need why she should start now.

 

Sighing, she turned away, looking around to see where Rebecca and Mel had chosen to cease their flight and barricade themselves in for the night. The sun had only just disappeared beneath the horizon, and the pale fingers of light it still grasped at the stars with were enough to force her to squint; but the long, low, squat shape of the hotel was impossible to miss. She was in the parking lot, then. _Brilliant deduction,_ she told herself acerbically, _where _else _would they leave the car?_ That was enough to sober her; while the shabby gravel yard was deserted, her crazed eruption from the trunk would have brought disastrous consequences had it occurred in a more populous area or, even more alarmingly, a busy street.

 

That would not be a problem for much longer, though—once she was home, in her own place, with some measure of control over her environment, it would no longer matter how troubled her wakings might be; they would be private. Though the word twisted her mouth with bitter irony, Mel had truly proved himself to be nothing short of a godsend; his connections belied his insistence that he was merely a lowly American embassy attaché, and he had been exploiting them to the hilt. He was able to give no firm date yet, as the peculiarities of their situation required a certain degree of finesse, but he was completely adamant that in no more than a few days, a week at most, their passports would be “unencumbered” and they would all three be on a flight back to the United States. Such a strange term for the situation, but it had an eerie aptness; why shouldn’t the deaths of Lieutenant Marin, Professor Popescu, and all the others weigh just as heavily on her travel privileges as they did upon her soul?

 

_Stop it._

 

She hugged herself tightly and turned away yet again, this time to gaze out at the lush, verdant countryside behind them. Not Bucharest, then; though there was no particular reason to avoid the city that they were aware of, she understood their craving for peace and solitude. Her sister woke up screaming even more often than Michelle herself did.

 

_STOP IT._

 

She began to pace fretfully. Rebecca had made a point of waiting for Michelle to awaken for each of the three nights since they’d set off, and she badly missed the company. Sliding back into the role of sibling camaraderie made things so much easier; they were merely teaming up to surmount a problem, as they had countless times throughout their lives. It didn’t matter _what _the problem was; that could be shoved aside, dealt with later, just so long as the worst was behind them and the immediate issues were addressed. And there _were _still issues; passports, investigations, travel arrangements… she could barely conceive of it.

 

_Dracula crossed the sea nailed into a box aboard a package steamer; surely I can stand the same for the length of a plane ride. _

 

Shuddering, Michelle spun on her heel and made her way forcefully towards the hotel entrance. Rebecca and Mel _must _be checked in, must have simply drawn the drapes and lost track of time; if she asked at the desk the staff would undoubtedly be happy to show her to them. If something had come up that called them both away, they would have found some way to alert her, a note shoved under the car’s license plate, _something._ They had to be up there, or at most having supper in a café nearby; they hadn’t abandoned her, they hadn’t been waylaid, and nothing had gone wrong.

 

The sun had not been down long enough for anything truly terrifying to have taken place.

 

Shouldering her way past the heavy oaken entrance door, Michelle barely registered the interior of the lobby, small, dim, and smoky. Her Romanian was still appalling, and the clerk spoke no English, but he seemed to connect her accent to some of his guests, and gestured her to the stairwell. She nodded brusquely and climbed the elderly flight of stairs unhesitatingly; she had no doubt of her ability to locate her companions on her own.

 

Indeed, she need not have worried even had she not possessed certain advantages in that regard. The small landing opened directly onto the doors of the four suites the second floor had been divided into, three of which gaped open; and as she stood there she heard the unmistakable sound of Rebecca’s soft giggle. She felt a bit silly as relief washed over her, mingled with shy pleasure at her sister’s laughter. There had been nothing to worry about, nothing to fear any longer. Truth be told, the pair of them had done a much better job of getting out of trouble than Michelle had, for which she would be eternally grateful to them; very few people were able to mean that quite so literally.

 

Shrugging off the unpleasant thought, she stepped forward and raised her hand to knock on their door; but a new sound stayed her knuckles.

 

“I don’t think it much matters,” came Mel’s voice, soft and murmurous. “We’ll know for sure tomorrow or the next day. We can tell her once we know, one way or the other.”

 

“It just seems—I mean—" Rebecca cut herself off, frustration evident in her tone. “It changes _everything._ Leaving her in the dark…”

 

“Bad pun.”

 

“It’s not funny!”

 

“Of _course _it isn’t; it’s a matter of life or death. _And _death. This is a lot to take in on top of everything else, and I’m not sure how I feel about it myself… what if we’re wrong? Why upset her like that?”

 

“But if we aren’t wrong…”

 

“Then we’ll take care of her. I promise.”

 

Michelle stood frozen, hand still raised to knock, utterly stunned and unable to quite wrap her mind around what she had just overheard. As if to mock her, the sounds that next issued from behind the door spoke volumes more than any words ever could have: a soft sigh, followed by the papery slide of skin against skin, and the wet click of lips.

 

She had had no inkling that they were lovers, but that itself was no surprise in comparison with what else was apparently transpiring. Life and death matters that she shouldn’t be told of, until the pair could determine whether or not she needed to be ‘taken care of’? She was tempted to tear open the door and interrupt their games, demand that they explain themselves—but really, what explanation other than the obvious could there be? After all the horror and bloodshed the three of them had seen, they had come to the conclusion that Michelle was inextricably linked to it; that there could be no redemption for her, that the only solution was to put her out of her misery as she had so often begged for in the first nights of her change.

 

_No. _Rebecca would _never _believe that, would _never_ choose to abandon her sister… not on her own. Mel, though; Mel, with his fresh-faced ingeniousness, his seemingly never-ending store of tricks and stratagems… Better to tear the door open and then tear _him _limb from limb, take Rebecca and flee this Godforsaken country and every miserable, wretched thing associated it. Michelle could easily ensure that _nothing _would get in their way, and if that frightened Becky, so be it. She cursed herself for not seeing it sooner. _Nothing _good could come of their associations here, _nothing_. Mel was as grasping and manipulative as anyone else they had encountered here, and Becky had fallen for it just as easily as she had, but she could _change _that, protect Becky from those who would try to harm her, just…

 

_…just like Radu._

 

She snapped back to herself with a thin, barely audible whimper, and found that she had clenched her hands so hard that her nails had pierced the flesh of her palms. Raising them before her, she regarded the thin weals, delicate perforations edged in shredded skin. As she watched, dark, viscous blood began to slowly ooze from one of them.

 

_No. _

 

So unnerved and disgusted she could not even flee, she burstinto shadow, shedding her corporeal form in an all-consuming of instinctual need. A slender, pale, frightened young woman had stood in that hall; now there was only an elongated silhouette thrown across the wall, and it sped down the stairwell as unobtrusively as a ghost. She flowed through the passageway more quickly than a human could ever have dreamed of doing, whistling through the lobby in barely an eye-blink and melting through the heavy outer door as if it were hardly there; but the cool humidity of the night air coupled with the sudden openness shocked her out of her flight. Her momentum seemed to carry her forward a short distance before she coalesced, stumbling as her suddenly solid feet once more made contact with the ground.

 

A strangled sob escaped her as she staggered in a circle, hoping that no one had seen, trying frantically to come up with an explanation, but it seemed her luck had once more held. She scrubbed fiercely at her eyes, more out of habit than actual need; no matter how darkly stained her soul had become, it seemed that she could no longer summon tears with which to cleanse it. But that was only one of the myriad things she had lost upon the grim road she had been forced to travel. Sunlight. Warmth.

 

Life.

 

There was no denying it, no turning away from it any longer. She’d had such hopes… surely nothing was irreparable, nothing unsalvageable. Diabetes, AIDS, cancer, even leprosy… all sorts of dreadful illnesses plagued humanity, and their sufferers weathered them, led happy lives in spite of them with the assistance of medicine and care. In comparison, her condition was barely an impediment; she had convinced herself that if she only tried hard enough, she would be able to minimize and ignore it to a great extent. She had the tool, won at great expense, and with enough self-discipline and practice, well…

 

A nice dream, and one Michelle had clung to desperately; but if even her own beloved Becky had resorted to making contingency plans to deal with her, it was long past time to face facts. Even the meanest African villager, riddled with starvation and disease, had several advantages over her. Lungs that worked for something other than speech. A stomach that digested food. A beating heart. No matter how foul the plague that infected them, they were still _human, _something she would never again be able to claim.

 

It was long past time that she accepted it. By refusing to make real plans of her own, she had allowed a gap that Rebecca and Mel apparently felt the need to step into. So be it; but that didn’t mean she needed to go along with it. They had a right to arrange their lives as they needed to, protect themselves from her or anything else the felt a threat, and the least she could do to repay them for the amazing risks they had taken on her behalf was to help them do so. And, first things first…

 

With a sudden start, she realized that she had never closed the car’s trunk. _Good job!_ she thought as she hurried across the gravel lot. _A lurking creature of the night that can’t even remember to lock the door behind her! _The door still gaped open, the tatters of the body-bag tossed by the gentle night breeze. Rummaging through the scraps and other miscellanea, she felt a moment’s panic until her fingers brushed the straps of the battered leather knapsack she’d carried with her from America. Hauling it out, she yanked open the drawstring mouth and withdrew from it her hard-won treasure.

 

For all its macabre beauty, it still seemed such a simple thing to have caused so much tragedy throughout the long centuries of its existence. A dull, striated crystal, remarkable only for its great size, and for the deep hints of maroon near its base, it was cunningly set in a frame of pale metal—silver, steel, or something stranger, she could not guess—wrought in the shape of long, clutching talons that stretched wide to cradle it. A thousand years ago, it had been stolen from the Pope in Rome himself, by a gypsy prince who sought only to purchase peace with it; he had received far, far more than he had bargained for. The stone was valuable beyond price, for with it came the secret craved most desperately by the lord he sought to appease. Legend had it that the stone dripped the blood of all the saints that had ever been martyred. Whatever the truth behind it might actually be, it was still magic wrought in metal and gem: with it, a vampire could live free of the need to feed upon mortals.

 

The Bloodstone.

 

As soon as her eyes fell upon it, the aching, cloying thirst that had come with her awakening returned with a vengeance. She scanned the rapidly darkening night, and found no new observers; still, she cautiously returned it to her bag, and made her way to the small scrub forest that bordered the lot. Though the inn seemed to be fairly isolated—no sounds of traffic or other populous life reached her ears--she felt much more secure behind the screen of trees. She retrieved the Bloodstone once more and, before she could stop and think about what she was doing, closed her eyes, tilted her head back, and raised it above her open mouth.

 

The single drop that struck her tongue was scalding and electrifying; she shuddered, bending over and raising a hand to her mouth. Even now, she was still totally unprepared for it, each time she experienced it: more nourishing than the finest meal, more satisfying than sex, more enervating than the strongest stimulant, the ancient sorcery pulsed through her, renewing and strengthening as it went. She wanted to laugh, to dance, to leap tall buildings in a single bound; she settled for straightening up and secreting the stone back in her bag.

 

The night seemed new and fresh to her, and she reveled in the sensual acuity. Her senses had improved greatly since her transition, but it had thus far proved more of a curse than a gift; unless she made a conscious effort to block herself away, it was all too easy to become overwhelmed and enraptured by the plethora of sounds, smells, and sights that bombarded her. Yet with the power of the Bloodstone coursing through her, it seemed child’s play to sift and differentiate the myriad stimuli. Hearing a night bird call from a mile away, smelling the earnest odor of roasting beef wafting from the nearby village, realizing the local community was little more than a hamlet… all of these were delightful new pleasures, secret knowledge to be hoarded and enjoyed.

 

Standing tall, she shouldered the knapsack and raked her fingers through her mussed hair, attempting to give herself a semblance of normalcy, and smiled softly as she distinguished a particular set of sounds. She began to slowly stroll towards the hotel, no longer in a hurry to interrupt or accuse.

 

It was sweet, really; Rebecca had been alone for a long time. It seemed she had never really adjusted to the working world after leaving university, and had buried herself in her job rather than explored the new opportunities available to her. Whatever he was, Mel was a brave man, and seemed almost unduly loyal to her; she could do much worse for herself. Michelle had been so wrapped up in her own misery she had not seen what was right under her nose, and they could hardly be blamed for that.

 

She stopped to gaze up at the sky, the wheel of stars only just beginning to make itself visible, and wondered what future for her might be written there. While she immensely doubted that the plans she had heard them discussing were anything so prosaic as a trip to Disney Land, it didn’t seemed fair to immediately suspect them of malfeasance, as she had so quickly done. She owed them a hearing, and if they wanted to give it in their own time, so be it. If she didn’t like what she heard, well… there were options.

 

It was then, lost in a melancholy reverie of her possible paths, that she heard the distinctive sound of the trunk latching shut.

 

She froze immediately. There was simply no way that it had closed by itself; it was equally impossible that a Good Samaritan had approached the vehicle without her noticing. Turning slowly, she was so startled, so appalled, so _stunned _that she could scarcely credit what she saw. “We…” She swallowed. “We saw you _burn.”_

 

The dark, scarecrow figure perched on the car’s roof, feet planted on the trunk, elbows propped casually on its knees. At her words, it raised its hands in a sardonic gesture of greeting; its long, windblown hair obscured its features, but there was no mistaking those thin, twisted fingers, the extra phalanges turning them into nightmare talons, tipped with curved claws. “I might have expected a better greeting from my fledging,” he rumbled, his voice a scratched, whining rasp.

 

Michelle tensed, bracing her legs to flee, but her fright was already bleeding away to be replaced with the soporific balm of shock. He seemed inclined to wait for a response, but she could only shake her head slowly. “No. _No,_” she protested feebly, her voice little more than a squeak. “_No._ We saw… we saw you _die._ You can’t… you can’t be here, you’re _dead!_ You have to be dead!”

 

He sighed, a great gust of aggravation, and slid to his feet in a stiff, jerky movement. She retreated a step, but he continued to advance at a slow, measured pace. “I have suffered much and more for you, pretty one,” he told her, “but you insist upon taking kindness for weakness; and my patience at last wears thin.” He stopped, just at arm’s length—though not out of reach; no, not for him—illuminated in a pool of moonlight, and with the shadows that had surrounded him fled the last of her wild hopes. He seemed almost to glow a pale, bluish-white in the moonbeam; it threw into sharp relief his angular, craggy features, the hollow cheeks and the seemingly endless pits of his eyes, the flesh under them bruised and dark. Towering and gaunt, thinner than any mortal could ever be… and those hands, narrow and grasping, with their bizarre fourth joint on each finger.

 

Radu Vladislas, whom she had last known impaled and scorching in the morning sun, who had been staked, stabbed, _beheaded,_ stood before her once more, as hale and hardy as he had ever been.

 

She could have wept. She could have screamed. She could have run, flown, _torn_ through the darkness in yet another attempt to escape; instead she stood rooted, completely unmoving. It was too much to encompass. Of course he was here; already, it seemed he always had, always would be. He had dogged her steps since she had arrived in his home, an innocent student entirely unaware of what truly lurked in the bowels of the fortress she had wanted to document; why should a little thing like a violent execution keep him from continuing? Nothing else had.

 

He regarded her calmly, head cocked, and let the silence stretch between them. She could do nothing but stare back at him, blinking dry eyes and trying to take it all in. It wasn’t just terror, not just helplessness; the power of the Bloodstone singing through her veins tried to bring her clarity. It wasn’t his scent. He barely possessed one; a faint odor of dust and old, dead blood that came to her only as she strained for it. But there was _something, _some indefinable aura of menace and authority, command and presence, that draped him as indisputably as an ermine robe might have. She wanted to kneel down and bare her neck in submission almost as badly as she wanted to… to _attack, _to drive this interloper from her demesne and _crush _him for daring to interfere with her; yet, torn between the warring, alien impulses, she could bring herself to do neither.

 

He seemed to sense her distress; his lips curved in a twisted mockery of amusement. “No more protestations, fledgling? No more threats? No pleas for death?”

 

“I’ve learned better than to expect mercy from you.”

 

“Such _wisdom._ And have you yet learned to accept your new place?”

 

“At your feet?” Her teeth bared in an unconscious snarl, exposing the delicate, pointed canines. “_No_, Radu, I will _never _submit to you; not willingly. _Never._You thrust this life upon me, and if I have to live it, so be it; but not on your terms. _Not your way._”

 

“I?” He stepped forward, but she held her ground, glaring up at him. “I sought only to taste your life, and to begin to prepare you for what you must become.”

 

“You—are you _mad?_ You murdered my friends—“

 

“Slaves,” her cut her off harshly. “Meant only for your benefit, to ease your transition; nor was it I that slew them—“

 

“—you murdered _Stefan—“_

 

The rusty croak of his laughter finally startled her into silence. “You mourn him still? You would have lived a long and pleasant life, were it not for his meddling. Do you not yet understand? _He _murdered _you._”

 

“He did what he did to spare me your taint!”

 

“You are a foolish child who would do better to listen than to speak.” Radu drew himself to his impressively full height and matched her glare for glare. “I pierced you, aye, but that is only the barest beginning of the journey into my realm. I meant for you to stay by my side, to take instruction on your future role, to bear my heirs… but I fear that is lost to you, now.” He reached out to brush her midsection with one long hand, and Michelle finally flinched away, disgusted, as the implication sank in. “It is no matter. In time, we shall choose another... one we shall defend much more ardently.” Faster than even her eye could follow he was suddenly upon her, gripping her arms like bands of steel. “To rise again in darkness, a mortal _must die._” Before she could struggle he released her, allowing her to stumble backwards. “_I_ inflicted no such circumstances upon you, and I would have left Stefan’s carcass to smolder in the sun _for that alone. _Mourn him if you must, but _never _pity him.”

 

Michelle fell back before him, her burst of resolve sapped. She wanted to protest, to cry out against the truth of what he had just revealed, but his rage beat against her like the buffeting of wings. Deny it as she might, his black, bloody fury was incontrovertible: she knew nothing of the workings of the unholy transformation she had undergone, but she recognized the impotent anger of lost opportunity. “Even so,” she said as evenly as she could manage, “even so, I would rather be free and dead than alive under your power.”

 

He grinned, then, a skinning back of dark red lips to reveal his heavy, tusk-like incisors, and the sharpened canine fangs that buttressed them. “You persist in imagining that you have a choice in the matter.”

 

“I have the Bloodstone, Radu, and I will _die_ before you take it from me.”

 

“And you cling to your absurd delusions.” He shook his head disdainfully. “A time will come when you will see what a favor I sought to do you in the crypt at Bucharest,” he said almost conversationally, looking past her. Michelle did not need to follow his gaze; a sick, leaden dread began to uncoil in her belly. “Your mortal attachments still bind you, pretty one,” he crooned. “Do not delude yourself that they will not spend every moment of your defiance screaming for release.”

 

“F-fine. I will return it if you allow us to depart in peace. Take it and go.” Even as she made the offer, her mind wailed in protest; its loss would put an end to her plans, forcing her into the despicable role of the murderous hunter. _It doesn’t matter. I’ll think of something. _Anything _to make him leave…_

 

“And so I shall; with you at my side.”

 

_No protestations. No threats. _Traces of the eerie calm still clung to her, and she forced herself to face him, to try to see with her new eyes. He had remarked on her own lack of venom, but did he not mirror it as well? Even now, in this brief, heated exchange, she had learned more vampiric lore than she had the entire time she had spent under his vile tutelage. He had not bled her; he had not dragged Becky and Mel from their bed to torment her with; for him, this was nearly friendliness. Was he tired? Had that last grim morning damaged him more than it appeared? She had offered him forgiveness, once, and for a few brief seconds thought that he truly meant to accept her offer. “It doesn’t need to be this way, Radu,” she sighed, reaching up to clutch at the knapsack’s strap.

 

He watched her for a time, inhumanly, utterly still. “It has already driven you half mad,” he said softly. “The Bloodstone was never meant for one such as you, not now, not yet. You think to flee me with it will bring you peace; but I tell you now, you will know horror such as you are incapable of conceiving of.”

 

She could have laughed, then; had to purse her lips to swallow the cackle. Even with all the unimaginable tumult of the past few weeks, she had never thought to find Radu and her own sister in accord. She unslung the bag and withdrew the talisman; his eyes followed her warily, but she did not pay heed. Such a simple thing, a bauble that might have sat gathering dust in a museum’s storeroom for decades without drawing comment. “Do you fear me, then?” she asked. “Do you fear what I will become?”

 

“I fear… the loss of your potential.” His gaze… was that _pleading?_ “I will not permit that.”

 

She had no doubt that, had he wished, he could have fallen upon her, snatched the Bloodstone from her grasp, dragged her back to Prejnar and likely slaughtered Rebecca and Mel in the bargain; her strength had not grown that significantly. Yet he refrained; seemed, for the first time, inclined to treat her as something other than chattel, a witless thing to be bent to his whims. “I no longer wish to die. It’s true. But… but I don’t want to live like this. I c-_can’t._” And with that she began to sob, a harsh, dry wracking. As absurd and pitiful as it was, she could not force herself to stop, and she could not tell what she feared more: that he would be disgusted and move to punish her for her human frailty… or that he might try to comfort her.

 

She fell to her knees, clutching the Bloodstone to her chest, and continued to shudder uncontrollably. “I just… I just want to go _home, _Radu, I just want this to n-never have h-_happened! _ And if I can’t have that, I just want _peace. _I j-just want to be _safe…_ and not to have to hurt anyone… a-and…_._”

 

She more sensed than heard his approach. She flinched when she felt his long fingers brush her hair, wind themselves through the loose dark ringlets, but could not bring herself to rise; could not do anything but choke on her fear and grief.

 

“All you ever had to do… was _ask__._” His cold, leathery hand cupped her chin, forcing her to look up at him. His gruesome, hollow features were marred with something… not pity, no; but perhaps, understanding. And that was even more impossible to bear.

 

A hooked nail brushed the soft flesh behind her ear, and made her shiver with revulsion. Yet she too, now, was just as alien, just as strange, and perhaps it was time to stop rejecting that. She had not sought out these changes, but they had happened nonetheless, and there was no pretending otherwise, no rejecting the inescapable reality. Violent, cruel, and sadistic as he was, he had never sought anything but her submission; perhaps in that submission she would find knowledge, skills, the strength to withstand the horrors of her condition. She didn’t _have _to be like him, to utterly sacrifice her humanity in pursuit of some nameless, unknowable goal; she could study, she could learn, and in that knowing finally have a chance to make correct choices.

 

He raised his other hand to her face, and with it came once more that supernatural sense of _presence,_ as if his touch strengthened it. Enveloping and enshrouding, it was dark, solid, _strong_; here was strength, implacable and inescapable, enough to provide a bulwark to shield her from anything, or enduring enough to drive her over the edge if she resisted, as she had learned in all of her attempts to escape him. Perhaps she need not fling herself from that precipice… at least, not unarmed.

 

She was thrilled and alarmed at how attractive the idea suddenly seemed to her; to throw it all away, give up the fight, and give herself up to learning the ways of the night under his wing; but she knew it could never be so. “You’ll hurt Becky,” she whimpered. “You won’t leave her alone.”

 

“That reckoning has been foregone since you first chose to bring her into my realm,” he said. Pressing his palms more tightly against her face, he once more forced her to look up and meet his gaze. “Even were I to offer you their lives as a courting gift, do you think they would ever cease their quest to destroy us? Would they leave us in _peace?_” He withdrew one hand to caress her cheek with the backs of his knuckles. “I could slay the man, aye, and grant your sister the chance to join you… do you think she would come docilely?”

 

“No. Oh God, _no._” The idea of Rebecca… she hadn’t even thought… even after what he’d said about Mara and Lillian… “Oh, _no__, _oh please, don’t, don’t even…”

 

“Then so it must be.”

 

“I could… I could make her see…” But even as the words left her lips, she knew them for a lie. Becky might plot against her for her own good—and even that, in her current straits, seemed like a dim, infinitesimal possibility—but she would never, ever abandon Michelle to Radu’s clutches.

 

But she didn’t know that Radu survived.

 

And their passports… Mel had _sworn_ they would be free to return to the U.S. soon; she had never doubted that.

 

She wrapped her fingers tightly around the Bloodstone’s base, nails digging into the grasping metal claws. The idea, just the faintest germ of a plan, set her alight with hope; but it wouldn’t work, no, not like this, not unless she could somehow…

 

Another of Radu’s nails brushed her, trailing lightly along her cheekbone. And suddenly, the old magic of the Bloodstone dancing in her veins, she _knew._

 

Whipping her head back up to glare at him, she forced as much disdain and rancor into her voice as she could manage. “Unlike you, I have no trouble commanding my followers.” He ceased petting her with a jerk of surprise. “You will not take them from me, Radu, because you will not need to try.” Before he could muster a response she lunged forward, seizing ahold of his free hand. His fingers seemed to slither through her grasp, but she caught hold of his smallest finger and twisted with all of her might.

 

The last joint tore away with the dry, aching snap of a twig, and seemed to pulse in her first. Radu recoiled from her with a savage snarl, but she stepped forward, chin held high, and raised her open palm before him, displaying the severed digit like a prize. _If this doesn’t work, I am doomed. _

 

But she need not have worried; for even as she raised her hand, the finger end began to twitch, writhing in the palm of her hand as if it were alive. They both watched in horrified awe as it began to ooze a thick, dark liquid, darker even than the stolen blood that ran in her own veins. She gasped as it began to pool in her hand; it burned with a slow, sizzling fire that seemed as if it must melt the flesh from her bones, but she did not waver, holding desperately to this one last wild chance at hope. The liquid began to gel, to set, engulfing the digit in its rapidly burgeoning mass. Once it had done so it began to rise, to _flex, _slowly raising itself higher and higher, beginning to coalesce into a humanoid figure.

 

The demon—the manikin—the _subspecies_ screamed its rage at the pain of its birth, a high, keening wail borne out of nightmares. Even as it did so, its form and features sharpened and solidified. Its maroon hide gleamed with sticky newness, and it stumbled on her palm, grasping at her fingers for balance. Its tiny fanged mouth snapped furiously at the air, but it did not sink its teeth into her; it righted itself and swiveled its horned head, hissing violently.

 

Horrified at what she had wrought, Michelle pressed on regardless, shoving the revulsion and fear away. _If I falter, I am lost. _Raising her other hand, moving steadily and carefully so as not to upset its precarious position, she offered it the Bloodstone, refusing to startle at Radu’s raspy intake of breath. The creature regarded it cautiously, sniffing curiously; it then darted forward, eagerly lapping at the end of the crystal. The merest taste seemed to sate it; it withdrew just as quickly, turning to peer up at her owlishly. It gave a satisfied grunt, and nodded. That was nearly enough to cause Michelle to hurl it from her, screaming and stamping; such a knowing, self-aware, _human _gesture seemed impossible for such a misbegotten creature to make. Yet she still held fast and, finally, turned her gaze to Radu.

 

He still crouched defensively, hands raised, and regarded her with gape-mouthed shock. “You know not what you’ve done…”

 

“I know _exactly _what I’ve done. You think to use my sister, my flesh and blood, to torment me? So be it. Now I have taken yours, and will hold it hostage just as you’ve done. It _lives, _Radu. The Bloodstone has made it free of you… but you will still suffer just as it does.” Her voice was ringing, fierce, commanding; the subspecies glanced up at her for reassurance, then turned to Radu with a guttural growl. Carefully, she brought the arm on which it balanced closer to her body; forcing herself not to shudder as it scrabbled for better purchase, she guided it into the now empty knapsack. It scuttled violently for a moment, then reemerged to scowl over the lip of the bag.

 

Returning her attention to Radu, she continued. “You think to call yourself my master? Then _master me._ Spare me your childish tricks and bullying; I have had my fill, and I will repay you in _spades_.” She raised her hand to proffer the Bloodstone. “Show yourself worthy of the name, and I will follow you until the end of time. Harass me and bedevil me, and I swear I shall not rest until I’ve destroyed you.” She stood frozen, equally poised to fight or flee once more; she did not know what she would do if he called her bluff, but the confrontation had stolen the last of her energy. He would buy it… or she would be in a very great deal of trouble.

 

He straightened slowly, the fingers of his left hand flexing convulsively. The stub of the pinky, still as long as a normal man’s even after its shearing, already looked healed, scabbed over. “So,” he hissed, “my little fledgling begins to spread her wings. Yet I wonder how you intend to shelter your precious mortals under them.”

 

“They will heed my commands.” She had not seriously believed that even such a dramatic stunt would truly cow him; but she had hoped for more than this.

 

“Ah? Will you steal into their dreams, then, to show them dire warnings? Control them, as you hope to control the creature you have stolen from me?”

 

He wasn’t frightened, no—he was _teasing _her. His lips were pursed in the closest approximation of an honest smile she had ever seen upon his face. He was amused, he thought this was _funny_; an obstreperous child insisting that she was a grown-up and protesting the restrictions of bed-time, against all evidence to the contrary. So be it; better that he continued to underestimate her, just so long as he took her seriously on this one thing.

 

“No, Radu,” she said tiredly. She was utterly, completely drained, and was out of ideas on how to press her cause. She could only hope that he would accept the plain, unvarnished truth as part of her façade. “I don’t claim to possess such powers as you do, nor will I ever likely be able to. I need only write them a note.”

 

He did laugh, then, a hoarse bark; but her reached out and gently, carefully took the Bloodstone from her. He lingered over the touch, lightly trailing his thumb over the inside of her wrist. “Go, then. Demonstrate to me that your pen is mightier than sword or sorcery.”

 

She paused for a moment, almost unable to believe what she had just heard; it _couldn’t _be this easy. And yet it seemed that it would be. Unwilling to give ground, she tried to dissolve, to flow through the night as a tangible reminder of her status, but she was unable to muster the strength. Hiding her chagrin, she spun on her heel and marched smartly away. The subspecies squawked a protest at the sudden, jarring movement, but quickly subsided into the depths of the bag.

 

A quick rummage through the car’s glove compartment yielded the materials that she needed, and she hastily scrawled the missive. This was the first part of the plan that had come to her, and while she could foresee no difficulty in communicating her true motives, she could do nothing but pray that Becky would be able to see, to read between the lines; everything hinged upon her understanding.

 

Shoving the scrap of paper under the steering wheel, she spared one last glance for the hotel, easily identifying the lighted window behind which Rebecca and Mel reposed. She tore her gaze from it and quickened her steps. She wanted so badly to turn back around, to run for them, beg them for help, for protection, for surcease; but she was the only one who could extricate herself from the situation in which she had placed herself, and their assistance was just a fond wish. She would succeed… or not. The alternative did not bear thinking about.

 

Radu awaited her beneath the trees exactly as she had left him, save perhaps for a slight broadening of his condescending smirk. _This is it. Last chance to change my mind. _She made herself stand before him and meet his gaze. “Alright,” she said. “I’m ready.”

 

He said nothing, merely extended a spidery hand; she took it, and went one better by entwining her fingers with his. He raised an eyebrow at this, but merely stepped behind her and placed his other hand lightly on her waist. The subspecies once more flailed inside the knapsack; Michelle had time for one last frightened moan before Radu _tore_ them from their flesh, and flung them out into the great, yawning darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Rebecca Morgan stared blearily into the depths of her coffee mug as if she might find the answers she sought hidden in the brown liquid, idly twisting the heavy ceramic between her palms. But it wasn’t coffee grounds, it was tea leaves that told the future. Perhaps she should have opted for the Earl Grey instead; after all she had recently gone through, she would not have been a bit surprised had a message been delivered to her via her morning’s dose of caffeine.

 

She shouldn’t have let Michelle wake up alone.

 

It was stupid to beat herself up about it, she _knew _that, but the anchor of guilt that bore her down wasn’t moved by any of her excuses. It had just been one hour, one single hour of one solitary night; Michelle was a big girl, she was fully capable of looking after herself…

 

…except when she wasn’t. But it wasn’t fair to blame her for any of this. Becky remembered when she’d first called with the news that she was going to get her grant after all; a few months’ field study, a few more months writing the dissertation, and Michelle would have her Ph.D. A real doctor, first one in the family! She had been over the moon with excited glee, and Becky had shared her enthusiasm; she’d always known her baby sister would amount to something. She’d been worried, of course—Michelle had never before left the country, and, glasnost or no, the Eastern Bloc was still unstable; there’d been worrying developments in the Yugoslavian region—but she’d feared cutthroats, kidnappers, even military action. Not… not what Michelle had actually run afoul of.

 

The very thought still made her head spin. It was crazy. It was absolutely unreal. If anyone else had come to her with such wild tales, she would have laughed them off, perhaps suggested they might want to find a nice therapist to discuss such things with. Even when she’d received that frantic, tearful phone call from Michelle, she’d assumed it was something much more prosaic—drug trafficking, maybe. International jewel thieves. Slavery, even—Michelle had always had a knack for finding herself in bizarre circumstances. Terrifying at the time, but nothing some bail money, sweet-talking, and perhaps a few bribes couldn’t set right; as backwards as some of these second-world countries might be, surely none of their denizens would dare interfere too terribly with an American citizen.

 

Little did she realize that the kingdom of the dead did not much care what color your passport was.

 

Tepid coffee slopped onto the soft webbing between her finger and thumb, and she scrabbled for a napkin with a muffled curse. Blotting herself dry, she gritted her teeth, sucking in deep, restorative breaths. She wrapped her hands around the mug once more, squeezing it crushingly tight, willing herself to stop shaking. It didn’t matter anymore. It was _over, _done with, finis, kaput. _It didn’t matter._ They were safe. Michelle was merely… following an impulse, or taking some time to herself to think things through. It was a silly, asinine thing for her to have done, but people were entitled to have inappropriate reactions to stressful situations—Michelle moreso than most, given the circumstances.

 

But the lurking spectre of suicide would not leave her thoughts. Michelle had been terribly unhappy, disgusted with herself and what she’d become. She had seemed to be adjusting, but what if it was merely an act? What if she had merely been in shock?

 

If she’d really meant to run off and kill herself, she wouldn’t have left a note—at least, not that type of note. Unless she’d been embarrassed—throwing herself away after all they’d gone through to save her, and meant to throw them off the trail so they’d stop looking…

 

The muffled thump of the shower being turned off distracted her from her grim reverie; she hoisted herself to her feet with a groan, and surveyed the tiny hotel room. Mel would want them to be on their way as soon as he’d dressed, and they carried so few possessions the forgetful abandonment of any would cause a hardship. She busied herself opening drawers and peeking in crannies, seeing if perhaps a stray sock or a comb had escaped her earlier packing.

 

She was so intent on her task that she must have missed the sound of the bathroom door opening; she was interrupted by the wet slap of feet behind her. “Hey.”

 

“Hey.” Warm, damp hands descended on her shoulders with a gentle squeeze; sighing, she leaned back into the caress.

 

“Careful there,” Mel warned her. “I’ll get you soaked.”

 

An arch remark rose to her lips, but her grinding worry over Michelle’s disappearance soured the humor. Sensing the new tenseness in her neck, Mel moved upwards and began to knead, placing a light kiss on her temple. “Hey,” he repeated. “It’s gonna be okay. _This _is no big deal; hunting down a typical missing person is what we do best. It’s practically our motto. The U.S. Embassy: we always get our woman!”

 

“I thought that was the Canadians?”

 

“_Woman, _Becky, woman!”

 

She smiled and leaned forward, allowing him to press on the base of our skull. “I just… I can’t believe she’d do this. This isn’t exactly missing curfew by fifteen minutes.”

 

Mel gave a sigh of frustrated agreement. “She left a note. It’s not as if she can just say, ‘Hey guys, need to go partake in an arcane ritual, be back later!’ Maybe it’s… instinctual. Who knows? Maybe vampires fly north for the summer.”

 

“That would make sense,” Becky agreed solemnly. “Longer nights.”

 

Mel chuckled and clapped her on the shoulders. “That’s the spirit! Now, gimme a minute to get dressed and we can be out the door. Heck, these people might even be able to tell us something about it.”

 

* * *

 

“It’s just… the way she wrote it is very strange.”

 

The drive to Bucharest had been uneventful, save for the townsfolk’s blithe disregard for traffic regulations, and Rebecca had brooded for most of it, lulled into melancholy by the passing scenery. Meadows and low hillocks did nothing to distract her from her internal monologue. Michelle’s note was short and to the point:

 

_I’m so sorry, but there are some things I need to take care of. Please keep up with all the stuff we talked about. I’ll explain when I get back. It’s kind of like _ _Oswego_ _._

 

_I’m so sorry._

 

_I love you, Becky._

 

“What, the Oswego thing? Isn’t that where you guys grew up?”

 

“Not quite. There’s more to it than that.”

 

A corner of Mel’s mouth lifted, though his eyes remained fixed to the road, deftly navigating through traffic. They were nearly at the city now, and the road was as congested as that of any other metropolis. “There always is. Some kind of secret code?”

 

“I don’t… I’m not sure.” Becky rubbed at her forehead, pushing back her short black bangs. “I just…”

 

“Wanna talk about it?”

 

She watched Mel carefully for a moment. Circumstances had thrown them together, and their relationship had deepened with an almost alarming rapidity. She wondered, quite often, whether it was not a result of the trauma and chaos they had been subjected to; if they were merely seeking solace from one another, and it went no deeper than that. But she was no mean judge of character, and he was by all accounts a good, decent man; she wasn’t going to uproot her life to Romania to be with him, but perhaps he truly was worth sharing with.

 

She sagged back into her seat, squirming at the uncomfortable memories, and decided to get it over with. “Our parents divorced when we were kids—I was seventeen, Michelle was thirteen or fourteen, I forget. Pretty typical story, really. Dad was a traveling salesman, Mom hated being alone, they fought all the time when he _was _there… so when she caught him having an affair, that was pretty much it.”

 

“Ouch.”

 

“Yeah. But the thing is… our mom was… sick. I’m not sure… I mean, we never really got a diagnosis, she wouldn’t get help for it, but I’m pretty sure it was some form of schizophrenia. She was pretty erratic and, um, got out of control sometimes. You know…”

 

“I think I understand.”

 

“It wasn’t _that _bad… but, well, it was pretty bad. As awful as it sounds, we were pretty happy about the divorce. Our dad got a transfer to the head office in New York City, bought a flat, and got ready to take custody of us both.” Without comment, Mel reached over and took one of her hands; she squeezed back tightly. “But Mom… Mom wasn’t having any of that. It wasn’t even so much about not wanting to give us up, or what was best for us, or being worried about us with Dad, it was more… she just… she didn’t want to _lose._

 

“But it was just out of control at that point. I was older, and I had a pretty good idea of what was going on—however she acted, I knew Mom was sick, she didn’t really mean anything she said. Michelle, though… it was pretty rough on her. She was just a kid, you know? You’ve got enough self-esteem problems and stuff at that age without dealing with that kind of drama. So… I made a deal with Mom: I’d stay in Oswego with her if she let Michelle go with Dad.”

 

Mel turned to glance at her, and she was pleased and flattered by the surprise and admiration she saw on his face. “Wow. Um, wow. That was… I mean… _wow._”

 

Becky smiled and hid her blush by looking out the side window. “It wasn’t really that big a deal; I was leaving for college the next year anyway, I just had to tough it out a little bit. But—I mean, I really didn’t just feel like dumping _another _load of family drama on you, that’s just the only reason I can think of she might mention that.”

 

“You think she just wants you to tough it out for a bit?”

 

“No. No, I just wonder… if maybe she feels she needs to leave for our good. I just can’t think of why, except—“ A dreadful thought occurred to her. “Maybe _she _made a deal, so we could go…”

 

“Whoa, hold on there. I didn’t go back to check its pulse, but there wasn’t much left to take it from. I’m not claiming to be Van Helsing or anything here, but if that thing wasn’t done for, I don’t know what is. And if it isn’t, I think we’ll have to have the army nuke it.”

 

She sighed once again. “You’re right. I _know _you’re right. Maybe I’m reading too much into it… or maybe it _is _some completely different kind of, uh, cultural thing. She has that sculpture. I’m not worried about… that.”

 

“She’s a good egg,” Mel assured her. “I’m sure she has a good reason for doing what she’s done… but you should give her a spanking when she gets back.”

 

Since Michelle was inconvenient at the moment, Rebecca contented herself by swatting him, instead.

 

* * *

 

“This… is this really it? It looks like…” …._something out of a horror movie, _Rebecca wanted to finish; but given that some of the other ghoulish archetypes had turned out to be all too real, she bit it off for fear of cursing it into existence.

 

It looked like a church. Though nothing like the structures back home, it bore an unmistakable resemblance to the beautiful Orthodox cathedrals she’d seen since arriving. A massive stone colonnade faced the flagstone courtyard, and gnarled, twisted gargoyles leered down at any who might approach. Three high, fluted cupolas topped the building, covered in what were once beautiful, deep red tiles, but they were chipped and filthy now, missing in great hunks. Dirt was ground into the ancient stone anywhere the eye fell; most of the windows were boarded over, giving the building a shuttered, derelict look, and the smaller outbuildings that flanked it seemed ready to collapse at any moment. Yet the rusted, wickedly-tipped gate that yielded egress through the wrought-iron fence bore its name in tortured, Gothic script: The Vitalis Institute.

 

“Yeah, it’s something, isn’t it?” Mel asked as he unbuckled his seatbelt. “But this kind of thing is pretty common here. Communism, you know; everything must be equal, in accordance with the Ten Year Plan! A lot of the old buildings were demolished in favor of apartment complexes and office high-rises, and the ones that remained the government didn’t really support—too ostentatious and profligate. So, while anywhere else this might be a historical landmark, or even a museum, here it’s a run down slum. They probably got a great price on it.”

 

“I sure hope so,” Becky muttered as she exited the car. There seemed to be no way to alert those in the building to their presence, but Mel confidently strode forward and unlatched the gate, which swung open with an unexpected silence, and bowed her through with a teasing grin. She mustered a wan smile in return and entered the courtyard; the closeness of the buildings lent her soft loafers an eerie click as she crossed the flagstones.

 

Mel caught up to her quickly and herded her around the dry, dilapidated fountain in the center and up the low, worn stone stares. She blanched a bit at the heavy iron knocker that adorned the enormous double doors, all too easily imagining that three solid knocks would summon Igor, ready to show them to the Mathter’s laboratory, but Mel shouldered them open without a moment’s hesitation.

 

The blunt, worn utilitarianism of the front office was almost soothing after the frightening images her mind had conjured up. A few cheap, mismatched metal chairs were scattered about, but the room was dominated by a long, scratched desk, where a stocky, angry-looking woman in a starched white nurse’s cap muttered dolorously over her paperwork. Uncertain of how to proceed—her grasp of the local language remained nonexistent—she glanced up at Mel, but he had already turned to greet the new figure striding busily down the hall.

 

“I am so happy to see you have come!”

 

“We’re just as glad to be here.”

 

“Indeed, Dr. Lazar,” Rebecca added, reaching out a hand to shake.

 

“Oh, but you must call me Ana!” the tall woman replied as she clasped her hands warmly. “Someone calls me Doctor, I am looking around for a patient to treat, it will never do.” Rebecca couldn’t help but smile in the face of the blonde’s enthusiasm. She had been uncertain about Mel’s insistence that they both visit a local hospital the day following their flight, but had eventually agreed, unable to find the harm in it. Both had received clean bills of health… and the following day, Mel had received a most unexpected offer.

 

“Ana, then.” Mel grinned broadly, radiating charm with a strength that had to be insincere as he shook her hand in turn. “I mean it, though. We really appreciate you arranging this for us, even if it turns out—“

 

“Ah ah ah!” Ana cut him off with a raised finger and a mockingly stern expression. Spinning on her heel, she crooked it, gesturing for them to follow as she bustled through the swinging doors leading to the interior of the Institute.

 

As they paced down the hallway, Rebecca’s unease began to reassert itself. The corridor was gloomy and dim, the soaped over windows along one side only letting in an indistinct gleam of sunlight, just enough to highlight the dust motes dancing in the air. Along the other side were elderly, scarred wooden doors, most of them locked and dark. Various bits of furniture, along with the occasional wheeled cart, were scattered along their path, seemingly abandoned and shoved out of the way. She had not expected scoured, surgical precision from the local hospitals, but the clinic in which they had met Ana was a great deal better than this.

 

They passed an orderly as they progressed down the long corridor, a lanky young man with long, curly black hair tied behind his head, somnolently swiping a mop across the floor. He seemed entirely unaware of them until they drew up beside him, whereupon he flinched violently, practically cowering away from them. Rebecca barely stifled a shiver at the odd behavior. At length, they reached a second set of swinging doors, and Ana stopped, whirling once more to face them. “Now, before you are meeting the Doctor, I want to once again say why I brought you here—so you can look in my eyes and see what I said,” she said to Mel, “and so you can hear me your own self,” she finished to Rebecca. Confused, they both nodded.

 

“We here too swear the Oath of Hippocrates. I am not a poet, I am a physician, and it is not my place to be telling the tales—I keep your secrets as I swore to do. But you are in my clinic, and you are so worried about the scratchings and the bitings, and yet you are fine! But Melvin tells me that you came from Prejnar. Well, I think, well; perhaps there is something to this!”

 

At this, Rebecca shot Mel a worried look; he himself seemed a bit concerned. Ana noticed this, and pressed on with renewed earnestness.

 

“The Doctor, he is a great man. He is my mentor, and a more brilliant physician I have never known. But he is not so much with the patients any more as he is with the research. And he studies… many things. I think, perhaps the two of you should meet him to discuss things. So I get hotel number from admittance paper and call, and, here we all are. But I tell you again: we are _healers, _we do not harm. Despite me putting myself forward, everything you say will stay within these walls. Maybe it is nothing, and you will go home to tell your family about the pushy nosy woman who took you to meet crazy man. But… maybe not.”

 

More than a little taken aback by the doctor’s hurried, impassioned speech, Rebecca was not sure what to say. Of course, the woman could not come right out and ask them if they’d been fighting vampires, not and ever expect to be taken seriously, no more than Becky would ever have dreamed of asking for her help with them. Yet the doubletalk, dancing around the issue… it set her on guard for some unknown reason. Nonetheless, she forced herself to smile. “Of course not, Ana. We’re grateful for your help.”

 

“Truly,” Mel added.

 

Ana beamed in response, looking back and forth between them. “Okay? Okay!” She turned and shouldered through the doors, reaching back to hold them open for the others, and knocked on another door just a few feet behind them. Without waiting for a response, she twisted the knob and marched in; Rebecca and Mel could do nothing but trail after her.

 

Ana had led them into an office, which was surprisingly well-appointed, given the dilapidated state of its surroundings. An enormous Persian rug covered the floor, its faded but still distinct colors complementing the thick, heavy curtains that shrouded the windows. The walls were lined with tall bookshelves of dark wood, each crammed full with various texts and scraps of paper; they in turned matched the small desk and the delicate chairs before it at the far end of the room.

 

“Dr. Nicolescu,” Ana stated with quiet reverence, “I have brought your visitors.”

 

Becky did not know what she had been expecting, but the man seated behind the desk was most certainly not it. Older—he looked to be in his fifties, perhaps his young sixties—he had the look of a once powerful figure gone soft with age. Not fat, but fleshy; loose jowls hung from a firm jaw, and his fish-belly pale skin sagged beneath full, longish hair that gleamed shoe polish black under the dim light. Thin, round spectacles obscured his eyes, smoked to an impenetrable darkness; as Ana gently urged them towards the desk, Becky wondered if he was blind.

 

“Ah. It is a pleasure to meet you.” He turned his head in their direction and gave them a sickly smile, but did not rise to greet them. “I am, of course, Ionus Nicolescu.”

 

“Likewise, doctor. I’m Mel Blair; this is Rebecca Morgan.”

 

“Thank you for seeing us, doctor.”

 

“Of course. Please, be seated.” As soon as they were settled, Ana gave a deferential bob and scuttled from the room. Nicolescu lowered his chin, but Becky could not tell if he were truly looking at them. “So! I am given to understand that you have had a most curious adventure.”

 

“Pardon me, doctor,” Mel replied, “but I’m not entirely clear on why we’re here. What is it, exactly, that you study?”

 

“I will ask you in turn: were you at the fortress in Prejnar?”

 

“I’m not sure what this had to do with—“

 

“So.” That thin, languid smile again; he raised his hands in a placatory gesture. “Since you were able to enter this place freely, I will make this easy for you, at risk of my own reputation. Good visitors, I study _vampires.”_

 

Becky slowly released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, and Nicolescu turned toward her. “How… how in-depth is your study, doctor?”

 

“I am a scientist, my dear, not a folklorist. To be easy again: yes, I know that they are real, I know that they are true, and Ana has given me reason to believe that the two of you fear their bites.”

 

She sagged back in her chair, uncertain whether she was relieved or unnerved anew. The look Mel shot her was disconcerted; even after all this, it seemed bizarre to be discussing things so baldly in this stranger’s tastefully decorated office. Yet if the research Ana had hinted at over the phone really existed, there was no choice but to press on. “Not us, doctor, at least not anymore. My… my sister…” She found herself suddenly on the verge of tears, unable to continue. Vampires and demons and black magic… if she told this strange, smiling man of it, that would make it _true, _incontrovertible.

 

Nicolescu’s face drew down into a mask of sympathy, and he leaned forward, extending a hand. Impulsively, she seized it; his grip was limp, cool and clammy, but she found it steadying. Strange as it may be, the man was a doctor; if this could be reduced to no more than a medical problem, it might be easier to come to terms with. And so she found the tale spilling out of her, everything that had happened since receiving that dire phone call, and as much of the events that led up to it as Michelle had told them. When she stumbled, Mel picked up the thread, expanding and adding detail wherever he could. Sooner than seemed possible, they had related the whole sad, sorry story.

 

The doctor patted her hand reassuringly, and was silent for a moment. “So,” he finally said. “Prince Vladislas has returned. King, now, if what you say is so.”

 

Becky jerked her gaze up. “You _know_ him?”

 

“I know… of him. But you said he is dead. Did you return to scatter his ashes? Leave them at a crossroads?”

 

“No, I… no.” She glance back at Mel, who was shaking his head. “We didn’t see how anything could survive what… happened…”

 

He patted your hand once more. “And you are most probably correct. But he is a strange and ancient thing; it is hard to imagine him destroyed so simply, no matter how valiant your efforts. Nevertheless, you say he burned; and though you may not have scattered his remnants, wind will accomplish more than enough. As you say, even for one such as he, that seems an impossible situation from which to recover.”

 

Withdrawing his grasp, he settled back into his seat, clasping his hands before him thoughtfully. “Your sister may have gone to seek his grave. The bond between sire and spawn is very strong, and she is yet so new, with such complications… but nevertheless, I cannot imagine what task may have called her away from her that is not her own. The vampire is not the salmon, called to swim upstream against the current.” His smile returned, but neither of them could bring themselves to share in the humor.

 

_Spawn._ Rebecca could not prevent her lip from curling at the ugliness of the word, no matter how true it might be. Yet the doctor remained silent, seeming to consider his thoughts as the silence stretched on.

 

When he finally continued to speak, it was halting. Though his English appeared flawless, it seemed as though he had difficulty finding the right words, translating his medical vocabulary. For jargon their surely was; she had trouble following his disjointed lecture, but the word “retrovirus” gained her rapt attention. He slowly outlined what he believed to be the basics of the vampiric condition, biology turned savage at the cellular level; but as he progressed beyond that, discussing his personal experimentation, Becky felt a wild blaze of hope streak through her. “Like Methadone?” she interjected excitedly.

 

Nicolescu frowned, either in confusion or in irritation at the interruption. His head turned toward Mel, who, after a moment’s thought, offered a few words of Romanian. Nicolescu’s frown deepened, and Mel tried again. “Ah! The opiate?” He actually mimed pressing the plunger of a syringe near his arm, and Mel nodded. Turning back to Rebecca, he responded, “Yes, in a very similar way, though there is of course no weaning. But I have evidence of long-term benefits; not a cure, no, not a cure yet… but I have great hope and belief that it will be, some day.”

 

“I can hardly… I mean, it’s just so… the idea that Michelle really _can_ get better, even if it’s not right away…” Rebecca was practically speechless. She wanted to leap across the desk to hug and kiss him, demand a few dosages of his wonder-drug to hunt down Michelle with; yet at the same time, she could barely believe that this wasn’t some kind of sick, practical joke, a little local humor at the expense of the Yanks. It was just too unbelievable.

 

“It is not magic,” the doctor told her sternly. “It is not even very good medicine. But, as you can imagine, this is not a highly trafficked field, and so I do the best I may. It is difficult to find subjects; but I would be delighted with the chance to aid your sister in her… illness. I have reason to believe that, given her, shall we say, _youth, _she will respond to treatment most adequately. And if not, well, it is a hospital, we have blood to tide her over until we can discover why.”

 

Mel seemed to follow her train of thought, and was just as dubious. “Forgive me, doctor… this sounds wonderful, but it’s a lot to take in… a few days ago this was all stuff out of storybooks. And I have to ask: just what, exactly, is your interest in this field?”

 

“Hmm.” The doctor turned his head to regard each of them in their turn. “You are not making me angry, Melvin,” he said, “and I can see you very well, Becky.”

 

Surprised at both the seeming non-sequitur and the casual use of her diminutive, Rebecca cocked her head. The doctor’s smile broadened, but remained closemouthed, as he leaned back and steepled his fingers. “Forgive me. This is hard.” After a long moment, he slowly levered himself to his feet, rising with a crippled stiffness, and ponderously made his way past them to the nearest window to take hold of the curtain-pull. “I have a most vested interest in this field.”

 

With a short, sharp yank he drew the curtain aside, allowing the mid-morning sun to stream brightly through the wide, clear windowpanes. He flinched at the movement, but stepped into the patch of sunlight with a wracking, full-body shudder. Once he regained control of himself, he turned to face them. He reached up as if to remove his glasses, but seemed to think better of it, and folded his hands behind his back. Then he grinned, peeling his lips back to reveal the long, yellowed canines.

 

“Oh my God,” Becky gasped. She scrambled backwards involuntarily, and only succeeded in pushing the chair back a few inches, its legs catching in the pile of the carpeting. Mel leapt to his feet and placed himself between them, but held up a restraining hand to her.

 

“It is okay. It is good to be scared,” Nicolescu assured them. “As I said, it is hard to do this. But I know no better way to convince you of both my veracity and my dedication. _First, to do no harm. _I will not patronize you with claims of innocence and harmlessness, but I renounced those ways as soon as I was able to do so… and that was a long, long time ago.”

 

Becky’s pulsed pounded in her ears, her mouth suddenly dry, and fought down a wild impulse to laugh. Why shouldn’t there by a vampire doctor? Didn’t she know better than anyone that there was at least one vampire anthropologist running around out there? She clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a horrified, inappropriate giggle. Repulsion and fright struggled wildly against her desperate grasp on common sense; he hadn’t leaped to attack them, he had been nothing but friendly and helpful, but he was still _one of those things._

 

Mel relaxed fractionally, but seemed at as much of a loss as she was. “I can, uh, see your point, doctor.”

 

Nicolescu spread his arms in an expansive gesture, sunlight dancing and dappling his lab coat. “You now have me at your mercy. I place myself into your hands, as you have placed your story into mine, as I hope we can together convince your sister to do so. You can expose me. You can seek my lair while I sleep—if you have slaughtered the half-breed Vladislas, I shall prove no challenge for you! But you see me stand before you in the daylight, as even your own Michelle is incapable of doing. I am _not a monster, _just as she does not wish to be… as I greatly wish to help her not to be.”

 

That struck a perfect chord with Rebecca, and she suddenly grew cold at the prospect. The thought had not even crossed her mind; she had been so busy trying to think of ways to minimize things, to hide what Michelle was, that it had never occurred to her what might happen if her sister was discovered. She wasn’t a monster, not some ravening thing to be destroyed, but strangers would react with the same revulsion she now felt for the doctor. Totally unfair…but could one afford to offer the benefit of the doubt to a murderous beast? In Michelle’s case, yes, a thousand times yes… and there was no reason the same could not necessarily be said for Dr. Nicolescu.

 

Mel shot her a quick glance, seeking to gauge her reaction to this new revelation. He saw the dawning acceptance on her face and, with a great sight, slumped and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I—I’m sorry, doctor,” Rebecca said, forcing her voice to remain calm. “I… we just…”

 

“I understand perfectly. But…may I close drapes and sit down?” he asked plaintively.

 

“Of course, doctor. I’m very sorry, you’ve been so kind, and we’ve been terribly rude…”

 

He waved a hand dismissively as he tugged the curtain shut, then hobbled back to his chair. Collapsing into it with a relieved sigh, he withdrew a handkerchief from a desk drawer and blotted at his sweat-dampened brow. “As I said, this is hard to do, in more ways than one. It is _not _good medicine. I stiffen up, I ache, I swell, I am weakened, I _age. _But… I can stand in the sun and not burn. I do not crave the blood of my erstwhile peers. I am…” He paused, twirling a finger in the air as he searched for the word. “…a vegetarian.”

 

Mel and Rebecca exchanged a long, searching look; he then pulled his chair back up and resumed his seat. “I think we can take you at your word, doctor. You’ve been more than forthright.”

 

Nicolescu nodded acceptance. “In truth, my heart aches with pity for all of you, but for Michelle most of all. I have… some idea of what she might have suffered at the hands of that line. They are—or were, thanks to your noble efforts—unique, fortunately.”

 

Rebecca’s mouth tightened as the mention of her sister brought the reality of the situation crashing back down upon her. All of the treatments in the world could do Michelle no good until she returned… or until they could _find _her. “I just wish we could have brought her here with us today,” she said. “I wish we could find her.”

 

“Ah, well. As to that… I may have a few ideas, if I am correct in my assumptions. Tell me more of this Bloodstone that you mentioned.” Dr. Nicolescu’s smile returned, broader than ever before, gleaming ferally beneath his inscrutable sunglasses.


	3. Chapter 3

Its dark russet hide gleaming wetly under the flickering torchlight, the subspecies threw back its head and roared its rage and defiance, a thin, piping shriek that nonetheless betided woe for anything that might dare to cross it.

 

Its three opponents fell back, alarmed, but far from intimidated, gathering themselves into a triangular grouping to assess the situation. Only one, the foremost, possessed the horns and tusks that adorned the fearless interloper; its companions were nearly featureless, but all three shared the same dusky rose coloring, pale in comparison. They hissed uncertainly amongst themselves, and the leader slowly began to advance, teeth bared, its followers a pace or two behind, fanning out in a transparent bid to flank the intruder.

 

The beset monster was having none of it, and lunged forward to slash at the leader with a brutal swipe of its tiny claws. The leader dodged, snapping at its attacker, and the trio continued to press forward as Michelle watched in horrified fascination. Though humanoid, the creatures were behaving like nothing so much as a pack of feral dogs attempting to drive off a strange cur. Though the new creature—she could not bring herself to think of it as hers—mounted a brave defense, she was well aware of what the subspecies were capable of. She had no doubt that the three could, and most likely would, tear it to shreds; she could not permit that to happen, but was at a loss as to how to prevent it.

 

She caught her lower lip between her teeth, mindless of her fangs, as she watched the creatures circle, feint, and dodge, seeking endlessly for weaknesses to exploit. Had Radu set his minions on it, to test its mettle or destroy it? Was this merely some sort of demonic pecking order scuffle? One of the hornless ones suddenly dashed forward and leapt upon the maroon one; there was a brief struggle, a squeal of pain, and the pair separated in a blur. Unable to see which was hurt, but fearing the worst, she lurched toward the battle and stamped a foot as close to the combatants as she dared.

 

“Scat!”

 

Four small, malevolent heads whipped around to regard her suspiciously. “Shoo! Go on!” she cried as she stamped again, feeling ridiculous as she flapped her hands at the trio. The horned leader growled deep in its throat, and before she knew what had happened sunk its teeth through her soft shoe and into her flesh. She yelped, more surprised than pained, and kicked out wildly. Unable to keep its grip on her foot, the monster soared through the air, describing a gentle arc before it landed on the ancient flagstones of the great hall with an audible thud. The remaining pair hissed at her in unison, and fled as if to check on their leader; soon the soft scuffle of retreating paws faded into the distance.

 

Letting out a shaky breath, she turned to the remaining creature. It had not moved, still braced for combat, glaring up at her. It did not seem to be badly injured; but as she looked closely, she thought she could discern ragged slash marks against the deep red hide of its left shoulder. “C’mere, little guy,” she said with a sigh. “Let me take a look at you.”

 

It did not move, continuing to glare at her with sullen defiance. Slowly, she lowered herself to her haunches. She had never seen Radu address his minions, or even acknowledge them directly, but they undoubtedly obeyed his commands; surely this one was somehow malleable. Cautiously, she extended a hand to it, while trying to project as much of an aura of assertiveness and friendliness as she could. “Fido? Rover?” she tried. “Come here, boy.” She snapped her fingers.

 

The sound seemed to galvanize it. Snarling furiously, its utterance quickly crescendoed to a guttural scream; sinking to all fours, the beast quickly loped off in the opposite direction of the trio’s flight.

 

Settling onto the floor, Michelle drew her knees up to her chest and sighed again, unaccountably hurt by the little monster’s ingratitude. She didn’t know what she’d expected—it wasn’t as if they were house pets—but her failure to control it was yet another reminder of how far out of control the situation had spun. Truth be told, she had absolutely no idea if the connection between it and Radu she had threatened him with actually existed; if the creature was somehow badly hurt or destroyed, with no damage done to him, she did not want to dwell on what fate might befall her.

 

The thought that he might very well know that no such bond existed, and was merely humoring her for some obscure purpose of his own, was not a happy one.

 

_ So long as you obey me, you need never fear me. _

 

Did he count lies as disobedience? She shuddered briefly at the memory. As summer drew long, the nights grew ever shorter, and while the wings of shadow allowed them speed undreamed of by humans, they had traveled quite a distance from Castle Vladislas; the return trip left them with only an hour or two before the break of dawn. That had been more than long enough for Michelle. He had spent much of it gazing at her; a bit of it outlining what he expected of her, reiterating the same dire promises—not threats, as she’d learned to her regret—he’d made in the past; but mostly staring. Following him down into the bowels of the castle, the dank family crypt had almost come as a relief.

 

When she had awoken, he had already departed, leaving her alone on the stone mausoleum he preferred. She wondered, idly, if once upon a time, it has been his in truth, but shoved the thought aside. She had a hunch, though she could not say why, that he did not sleep during the day, not as she did. For her, it was simply not an option; though dawn held only pain and a creeping, all-consuming weakness, as soon as the sun crested the horizon, she was undone, as dead as she ought to truly be until it once more began its descent. While he obviously found daylight as unbearable as she, she suspected that he was capable of resisting that daily death, at least to an extent. Perhaps it was a talent that came with age; she hoped so, as it would make things so much easier.

 

But she could not yet bear to plan for the future; her energies must now be focused on getting out of her current straits. She was perfectly glad he had vanished, though she had no idea where he’d gotten to. But even that was curious, she reflected as she rose to her feet and slowly made her way towards the window. The narrow hole in the feet-thick wall revealed a pleasant, green vista of fields and dells, dotted occasionally with low bushes and, here and there, sheep. Yet wherever she had fled, he had followed her with a seemingly unerring instinct. He did not seem to be able to home in on her, not exactly, but while she was far from an expert at hiding herself in foreign cities, his successes were too accurate to put off as mere coincidence.

 

“For me, you shine like a star in the sky.”

 

Michelle was very proud of herself for not flinching at the grating sound of his voice, but she could not bring herself to turn around. “So you read my thoughts, then.”

 

“Perhaps I sought merely to pay you a compliment. I am not without my… foibles.” His voice grew closer, though she could not hear his footsteps. “Does it please you?” he asked softly, nearly in her ear.

 

A thousand responses rose to answer that loaded question, but she could not afford to upset him just yet. “Prejnar is lovely,” she said finally.

 

He snorted derisively, recognizing that response for the dodge that it was, but did not press the issue. He stepped even closer, not quite touching, and gently grasped the sides of her shoulders, his nails brushing her collarbones. “That is another thing Stefan stole from you,” Radu whispered, his cold breath on her ear sending a not entirely unpleasant shiver down her spine. “The bond between master and fledgling is unbreakable; had things gone as they should, you would have willingly _died _before leaving my side. His interference weakened it, and your foolishness with the Bloodstone… you have seen for yourself what sorrow has befallen you by rejecting my tutelage. That bond prevents such aberrance.” He raised his head to nuzzle her glossy black waves. “But that is over,” he said soothingly. “It reasserts itself, even now.”

 

Though she struggled to keep the tension from showing in her body, she wanted to _scream_, to tear the rest of his fingers off, to round on him and claw his eyes out. The only _sorrow _she had experienced was the result of his mad, relentless pursuit of her, the slaughter of friends and the hideous attentions of his monstrous mother. She felt no calling, no _bond_. If anything, familiarity bred contempt: the more time she spent with him, the less afraid of his inhuman traits she became; the more she learned of his unholy abilities, the better able she became to counter them and, ultimately, flee him, once and for all.

 

So be it. Let him think what he liked.

 

She stood still and endured his caresses, even when his lips brushed the curve of her ear, but her fists clenched involuntarily when he kissed the lobe. Much more and he would be at her throat, and then she _would _scream, would do her _damnedest _to scratch his eyes out. She knew all too well the humiliating disgust of his heavy fangs piercing her, the filthy, draining lassitude that followed, and she would not stand for it again.

 

As if sensing that—and perhaps he did, in truth—Radu withdrew, trailing his spindly fingers over her shoulders and down her arms. “But now,” he said, “we hunt.”

 

*          *          *

Bucharest, again.

 

A thin, penetrating drizzle hissed down on cobbles and pavement alike, the mist it brought nearly swallowing the weak light of the elderly streetlamps that dotted the road.  No well-kept, tourist-friendly thoroughfare was this; the sweet, rotten odor of moldering trash permeated the alley they had found themselves in, and though the drumming of the rain fouled her hearing, Michelle could still make out the distant sound of drunken shouts.  A ghetto, then; a place where one more lost soul gone astray would hardly be missed.  How prudent.

 

She shook her head to clear the water from her eyes; though she knew, intellectually, that she ought to be freezing, the only thing that bothered her was the unexpected trickle of liquid across her skin, and the increasingly chafing dampness of her clothes.  She plucked fretfully at the neckline of the simple cotton dress Becky had loaned her as she surveyed the narrow view of the road afforded by the gap between the two tall, ramshackle buildings they sheltered between.  The awful thing was that it _was _entirely prudent, could not dispute the sense of it; she thought of the thousands of people that went missing every day back home, totally unremarked save perhaps a scanty missing person's report filed by an uninterested police officer, perhaps a spark of irritation from their employer when they failed to appear at their job the following day.

 

No, the working class, the poor, the desperate, the people who would inhabit such a run-down place as this... they didn't have support networks, deep ties to the community, officials who would notice their troubles and care about them.  Lacked siblings that would cross an ocean on a day's notice simply to get them out of a jam.

 

And perhaps, in some ways, were better off for it.

 

That thought finally brought a shiver where the night's chilling moisture had failed, and she hugged herself tightly.  Radu stepped up behind her, his height shielding her from some of the rain's lash.  "Do you shrink already, when we have not even begun?" 

 

"I..."  She shook her head.  The problem was that he was completely correct. While she was taking to slinking around inhabited areas with her supernatural abilities as aid with remarkable equanimity, she could not comes to terms with, could not even bear the thought of actually murdering a fellow--_another _human being, with malice and purpose aforethought, no matter how badly she might _need _to... the stated goal of this evening's excursion.  "I just... wonder."  Wondered how she was going to rationalize this.

 

For he was exactly right: up until now, it had been a game.  All she needed to do was keep him occupied until Mel managed to sort out their international arrangements and they were able to flee back to the west.  Play-acting, negotiating, stringing him along... that was all, that was as far as she'd thought.  Not what that might actually entail; not what her very _life _would entail were she not able to win free with the Bloodstone.  It wasn't a game any more, not here, not now, perhaps never again.  Radu had once again managed to push her to her sticking point; but this was not something she could ever afford to flinch from.  The ancient artifact might be capable of freeing her--she might be capable of securing it--but always henceforth would her continued existence require the destruction of others.  Their murder.  Their _slaughter.  _

 

Gently, Radu reached out and grasped her left hand, his unnaturally long fingers urging her own to unclench from the fist it had formed; once again, she had managed to dig her nails into her palms so hard they pierced the flesh.  The ragged holes were as pale as ever without the urgent gush of scarlet she expected to accompany such wound.  She felt only the faintest flutter of pain, the feel of an unfamiliar sensation as Radu's thumb passed over the wounds, and the thick, dark fluid that passed for her circulatory system began to ooze forth.  He raised her hand to his mouth and, with a sardonically arched brow, bent to lick the blood from the heel of her palm.

 

She gasped at the contact; his tongue was rough, as raspy as a cat's.  _For scabs, _she realized numbly, as he lapped delicately at the punctures, carefully, fastidiously seeking every droplet of fluid.  _Carrion eater._  She shivered, the usual revulsion mingled this time with a little awe. Whatever he truly was, he was a fully-evolved, functional creature in his own right; no mere monster of myth and legend, his demeanor and character seemed fully consistent with themselves, served necessary purposes that her analytical mind could not resist attempting to ferret out.  _Though the extra joints on the fingers... _she couldn't imagine what purpose they served, but they gave her something to think about, something, anything else to focus on besides the inhuman caress she was being subjected to.

 

For careless it surely was; his enjoyment was unmistakably evident, and he watched her carefully from the corner of his eye.  He seemed to interpret that shiver as evidence of her own pleasure; with one last, scraping swipe of his tongue, he worked his grip around to clasp her hand, rubbing her knuckles against his cheek.  "And what is it," he asked softly, "that you wonder?"  His gaze was calm and satisfied; the faintest of smiles curved the corners of his full mouth.

 

"I just..."  _Think, Michelle; if you're ever going to have a moment of brilliance, this would be the time for it._  "This just seems so... furtive.  _Common."_

 

He paused, a moment of blank startlement quickly melting into bemusement; he seemed inclined to be indulgent as he released her hand.  "Common?  You would prefer your prey brought to you perfumed and trussed in silk ribbons?"

 

Boldness.  He responded best when she felt she was being the most suicidally brash.  "Of--of course not!  But _this?_  Skulking in alleyways, picking off the weak and the wounded, feeding on society's dregs, the trash that won't be missed?  You told me we were hunters, Radu, the most ferocious things under the moon... but this is little better than scavenging."  She squared her shoulders and raised her chin, meeting his gaze as levelly as she could.  "Are the Vladislas wolves, or jackals?"

 

He snorted in amusement.  "Ravens, as it happens," he said, "both in arms and in truth.  I doubt that you, my pretty one, who has struggled against me so ardently, would ever be content as one of a pack, dependent on the will and whims of your betters... far, far more glorious to skim through the darkness on the winds of eternity, subject to none, far above all."  He was before her suddenly, faster than thought, close enough their chests would have brushed if they breathed, using every inch of his superior height to advantage as he gazed down at her.  "Would you bare your throat in submission?  Or would you seek the farthest bounty fate holds in its grasp?"

 

"Your line ruled here, once," she said steadily.  "Yet now all I hear is the whimper of a whipped dog."

 

She quailed, then; the complete, utter stillness of his form, frozen in perfect shock, told her that she had gone too far.  So be it, then; hopefully he was so infuriated he would kill her outright, all unwitting. 

But he did not; did not move a muscle, save those required to draw breath for speech, and his tone was conversational, almost friendly when he finally spoke.  "And what, exactly, is it that you wish from this?"

Stunned in turn, Michelle paused, fumbling for the answer for a question she had never expected to be asked, that proved to be far more difficult than she had ever anticipated.  To go home, to be left alone?  No, that wasn't what he meant--he wished to know her hunting preferences, what she meant to do as a wolf that she couldn't as a jackal, and that was almost a more damning inquiry.  She didn't believe in hunting _deer, _never mind her fellow humans; didn't like guns, didn't approve of military service, didn't support the death penalty.

_...the death penalty._

 

No one, _no one _ever deserved death--or so she had believed, until she ran afoul of the terrifying Vladislas family; she was willing to make exceptions for them, as personal and spiteful as it might be--but, given an untenable situation... a _survival _situation... was vigilantism not preferable to murder?  Her bite was now the most lethal injection of all.

 

"You ruled here, once," she repeated, hoping he would interpret the plural as flattery as she stepped away.  The uncertain shadows from the streetlights hid his expression, but he nodded cautiously.  "Not just... your own kind.  The whole area.  Everyone." 

 

"That was a different time," he rumbled.

 

"But still."

 

"But still," he agreed.  "Did your withered old professor apprise you of this?"

 

"No, actually," Michelle said softly.  "Just an old peasant woman... one of the first people we--I met here.  The commoners remember your house, Radu, even if only in stories, and they recall it fondly."  She licked her lips, struggling to phrase her idea as cautiously as she could.  "The Bloodstone may have freed you from some of your needs... but not all of them, surely?  There were three of you, no?  More?"

 

"Given your experiences with my line, I would not think you so eager to find more of my kin."

 

"That's not what I'm getting at," she insisted.  "You didn't go rampaging through the villages, slaughtering as you wished, did you?  You couldn't have."

 

"I can, and always have, done as I wished," he replied.  "But you are in large part correct, though perhaps not as you think.  We were not sheepdogs, to feast on the leavings of the flock."

 

"No, of course not."  Michelle pressed on, relief at acceptance of her idea allowing her to ignore its more immediate repercussions for the moment.  "You were justice, weren't you?  No decent lord, no voivod, would permit criminals to ravage their serfs... and your family had a unique way of enforcing your will on the populace, didn't you?"

 

He was silent, then; no sound reached her ears but the incessant patter of the raindrops and, very distantly, the sound of far away traffic.  Unease still coiled within her; she had obviously hit a nerve when she had meant only to appeal to his vanity.  It was probably foolish to have tried.  What exactly his history was, with both the area and the rest of his family, was practically unknowable; she had been surprised not by the hatred, but by the level of bitterness with which he had discussed Stefan that first night.  Had he _ever _gotten along with the lineal side of his family?  How long ago might that have been?  There was no way to guess how old he himself might be, never mind determine how long some of those grudges had been carried.

 

"So," he said finally, so softly the breathy rasp of his voice was nearly incomprehensible.  "You think yourself able to choose who among the humans shall live, and who shall die."

 

"I..."  It sounded a great deal less satisfactory when put that way; she looked away, gazing out into the mostly deserted street through the haze of fog, as she struggled to frame an adequate response.  "I just... I don't see why we have to prey on innocents, Radu.  There are people out there who... _bad _people, Radu, who don't need any further opportunity to hurt people.  But most of these people are innocent; they haven't done anything to deserve... us."

 

She glanced back to see how he had taken that, and was unnerved to see that he was smiling.  "As you and your friends did not, hmm?"  He tilted his head and once more regarded her with quizzical, indulgent interest.

 

She inhaled deeply, once more at a loss--though concepts she took for granted sometimes seemed entirely alien to him, he was alarmingly clever in some areas, particularly when she was hoping to slip something past him.  "We're not animals, Radu, we're not _monsters!_" Impulsively, she reached out and seized his hand, winding his long fingers through her own and stroking his palm with her thumb in imitation of his earlier touch.  "You've... shown me that.  Things don't have to be this way.  I just... just want a chance to try."

 

"Hmm."  He raised her hand to his lips once more, brushing his lips against her knuckles meditatively as he pondered her words.  "You would mete out death on your own terms."  Straightening, he released her hand abruptly.  "Go, then."

 

"What?"

 

“Go.”  He flapped his hands in a dismissive gesture.  “I would see how you intend to separate the sheep from the goats.”

 

“I…”  She raised a hand to her throat, backing away.  “You _want _me to pick someone?”

 

“Is that not what you wished?” he asked, reasonably.  “Go.  Find someone you deem worthy of the chase.  I will haunt your trail.”

 

“But…” Once again, she had not thought things through and, presented with the opportunity to do things her own way, found herself at a loss.  It wasn’t exactly as if she could request a few names and addresses from the local police department; though given some of the stories she’d heard about local politics, that was a chilling, and not entirely unrealistic thought.  “It’s not that easy!  I can’t just… _look _at someone and tell what they’ve done!”

 

“Can you not?”  Grinning, he placed his hands on her shoulders and gently turned her around so that she faced the street.  “Though I am not certain what to make of any further criteria you may have.  What must they have done?”

 

She didn’t like the barely hidden humor in his tone, nor the closeness he maintained; he gripped her arms more tightly, leaning down to regard the scene from the same level she did.  “You know what I mean.”

 

“I do not, pretty one; your discourse is quite a revelation to me—what makes one man more worthy of death than another in your eyes?”

 

“Criminals, of course!  Law-breakers… those who hurt others… unnecessarily,” she added desperately for his benefit. 

“Hmm,” he murmured, directly into her ear; a soft, thrumming purr.  “And what sort?  Is a man who murders more loathsome than one who steals?” he asked softly, lips brushing the curve of her ear.  “Or an usurer?  A peddler of flesh?”

 

“Murderers, definitely.  Radu, I—“

 

“Shh.”  He pushed her rain-slick bangs away from her forehead, tucking them away from her line of vision.  “Just listen.”

 

She stood stock-still, waiting for him to continue; but it seemed he meant for her to observe the sounds in the environment.  She struggled for calm, carefully flexing her fingers, one by one.  She didn’t need to think about the greater ramifications, didn’t need to think about how well the mocking tenor of his questions struck home; she just needed to _get through this_, secure herself another night in which to maneuver for her freedom.  She forced herself to take a deep, sucking breath, forcing disused lungs into service, and nearly gagged on the few droplets of rain that came with it.

 

The rain.  It was comforting, almost soothing; it acted as white noise, screening her from the constant panoply of sounds and noise that assaulted her, sparing her the effort of blocking them out.  Yet if she strained, focusing her concentration on sifting through the deadening hiss, she could make out a little—no, more than that, more than she realized—of  what transpired beyond it.

 

“The rain, of course,” she muttered.  “Traffic.  Cars driving.  There’s someone walking… two?  Yeah, two blocks away.  And there’s so many people between here and there, I can’t really focus… I can hear televisions, radios, somebody laughing… I can only hear the _high _sounds, for some reason… there’s a little kid, right next door…”

 

“Good.”  He nuzzled her temple.  “But not… pertinent.  I ask again: can you not?”

 

“Can I not—“

 

“Shh,” he repeated, and covered her ears, pressing firmly against the sides of her head.  “_Listen.__” _His voice came distantly through the barrier of flesh.  Her breath hitched as his palms, hard and smooth, gripped her face, his fingers winding gently through her sopping hair.  _What _did he expect her to hear?  Was someone being stabbed for their wallet in the near vicinity?  Was a woman screaming in pain as her husband beat her?  There was just so _much_; she could barely differentiate the activities taking place in the run-down bungalow beside them. 

Her temples throbbed, more from the effort than the inescapable pressure of his hands, and she struggled for calm, for stillness.  He wouldn’t do this, wouldn’t go through all this obscure effort, merely to vex her; there had to be a point to this, some lesson he meant to impart, as he had in making her track the fiddler on their last abortive hunt.  As absurd as the notion of relaxing in this situation was, she needed to assess what was going on around her and figure out what he was trying to convey to her, if for no other reason than to appease him.  It wasn’t as if he would simply permit her to go home and try again the next night; she did not want to see what would happen if he felt compelled to provide an object demonstration.

 

So.  She set her jaw and closed her eyes, trying to drive other concerns from her mind and focus on his quizzical instruction.  The rain pattered softly against her skin, easily dismissed.  The soaking wetness had brought out and enhanced the reek of the crowded neighborhood: rotting trash, the sour tang of spoiled milk and meat, mud, smoke, the nauseating sweetness of burning gasoline, the stony, chalky odor of wet concrete underlying it all.  And people, so many people: body odor, sweat, faint traces of perfume, soiled diapers; one woman, she presumed, that had recently passed through the alley had smelled so pungently of geraniums that Michelle thought she might be able to track her by it.  He wanted her to listen, not smell; but the odors were so pervasive she found it impossible to shut them out.  Exhaling one last uneven sigh, she forced herself to stop breathing.

 

Panic seized her, a wild desire to struggle, to gasp desperately for air, but she restrained herself.  Though she still drew breath out of habit, she knew that she no longer needed to, save to speak; had caught herself failing to on numerous occasions when fright and concentration had caused her attention to wander.  Even now, though her mind insisted she inhale, _must_ inhale before the gray spots of oxygen deprivation began dancing across her vision, she was fine; no iron band of suffocation gripped her chest, and that voice that yammered a panicked demand for air grew quieter, and finally silent.

 

She gave herself another few seconds to adjust, marveling a little at the unnaturalness of it; there was no denying how handy this particular aspect of her condition could prove to be.  Even now, muffled though her hearing was, she was amazed at how much quieter it was; found it hard to believe just how much sound the flex of lungs and the rasp of air through nostrils and passageways created.  Could this be what he had meant for her to discover?  No, he was much more direct than that—he would have smothered her, perhaps even drowned her, until she realized her freedom from the tyranny of oxygen exchange.  She had noticed long ago that he didn’t breathe himself, unless necessary; wondered how much the lack of familiarity with the process contributed to the strange, rumbling whine of his voice.  _Never mind.  _Once more, she did her best to blank her thoughts, casting her limited sense of hearing as far out into the night as she was able.

 

Nothing at first, save the ceaseless, shrouding background of the rainfall; not even, she realized uneasily, the roaring, seashell sound she associated with having her ears covered, the magnified sound of blood rushing through vessels.  _Never _mind, she told herself firmly, clearing her mind and straining to listen.  But only the same sounds greeted her, the noise of a poor neighborhood in a crowded city settling itself in for the evening.  Her face contorted into a wince as a stab of pain lanced through her temples, then settled into a fierce, fiery ache, worsening the harder she strained.  She had no idea what she was listening for, no notion how to identify its source even if she did; with the agony in her head steadily increasing, she was soon going to have to admit defeat, and childish terror at Radu’s probable response to that spurred her on to one last effort.  Shaking with exertion, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut, listening, listening so carefully, trying to sift the sounds, make sense of them, find the pattern, the goal—

 

When it happened, realization shot through her like a thunderbolt; she gasped, her spine stiffening involuntarily as her heels scrabbled desperately for purchase on the slick cobblestones.  Quicker than thought, Radu released her head and caught her under the arms.  She braced her shoulders against his chest as she fought to get her feet under her; he chuckled raspily in her ear, a sound to match the shock of breakthrough, and he was _there, _as he had been that night at the inn, but a thousand times more so, ancient and dark and regal and terrifying.  She whimpered, shaking her head in a daze, and he took her gently by the elbows, setting her on her feet.

 

“Oh, God…” she whispered, rubbing her face disconsolately.  She clutched at her temples, burying her hands in her hair; the pain was gone, but the throb remained, a strange, pulsing _awareness _that permeated her consciousness.  “Is it…” She stopped and licked her lips, shocked at the rich, alien timbre of her own voice.  “Is it always like this for you?”

 

“And what is it like?”

 

“I…”  She licked her lips again, marveling at their texture; even dry and slightly chapped, they were remarkably sensitive, every slight pit and wrinkle in the delicate skin a wealth of information.  “I…”  She shook her head, sharply this time, and straightened; a bad idea, it developed, as the whisper of air against her skin, the welter of hundreds of droplets of rain running down her skin at the movement, the fabric of her dress brushing her, the change in perspective, proved almost overwhelming to her. 

She dismissed any further effort to answer him; it was like nothing human, and no human language had ever had words to describe it.  His presence nearly drove out rational thought; however impressive or intimidating he might be in his own person, knowledge of him in this… way? …sense? …frame of reference?... was almost too much to bear.  The idea that she had ever thought to oppose such a creature, so awesome and horrifying, that such an ageless, endless thing could take interest in one such as her…

 

…for he did.  He was _pleased_ with her.  He was… not _happy, _but pleased_.  Proud.  _And in the same way that she knew that, she realized he was aware of her disorientation, that her response to it was the source of his pride.  This was a delicate time in a young fledgling’s life, for many couldn’t adapt to the sudden influx of awareness, were forced to live their lives as crippled, stunted things.  There had been that young dancer in Samarkand that—

 

She shuddered, clenching her eyes shut and gritting her teeth against the onslaught of information.  This wasn’t any kind of telepathy she’d ever heard of; she wasn’t reading his thoughts or sensing his aura, she just… _knew.  _There was no rhyme or reason to it, no pattern, no choice; she simply knew how pleased he was with her—and was slavishly, shamefully grateful for it; she did not think for a second that she could have withstood his disapproval in this heightened state—the same way she knew that even now the storm clouds were worsening to the east, that a pack of dogs had savaged a cat at the end of the alley this afternoon, that the man in the top floor apartment behind them had been fired from his job this morning and was beginning to prefer the option of suicide to telling his wife about it—

 

\--and _that _was what Radu had meant.  Entranced, she straightened and dropped her arms to her sides, opening her eyes and cautiously scenting the night air.  The feel of the rain and the smell of the alley melted away as she concentrated on trailing that thin thread.  _Yes.  _He was a machinist, a skilled laborer, but not so irreplaceable as he’d thought himself; he’d been told and told and _told _about his drinking, Ilya certainly wouldn’t be sympathetic in the least.  Michelle’s lips curved in a faint smile as she realized that the woman who lived in the apartment beside him might well.  She was young and frightened of just how different the big city was from how she had imagined it to be, but she’d be damned before she returned to her home village.  And there… 

 

On and on it went, as Michelle flicked her awareness from individual to individual, drinking down small sips of their presences as she passed through their minds.  It was stunning and staggering, so many different entities, each presence different from one another, yet all essentially the same; she felt no guilt at rummaging through their minds, simply awe and wonder that she was able to do such a thing.  It was the same as it was with Radu, though in a miniscule fraction: not mind-reading, not thought transference, not smell, not _exactly _hearing… just knowledge, sudden and swift and supernatural.  The image that sprung to mind was a picture she’d seen once: the United States photographed from outer space, at night, the familiar geographic shape lit up with the blazing ropes and clusters of light that delineated its roads and cities.  This was like that; all the different minds glowing pinpoints in the darkness, needing only to be followed, one to the next.  Surely it would be no great trick to travel to each of them in truth, shrouded in the wings of shadow.

 

For as much as she reveled in the soaring dizziness of this new, unlooked for, unimagined perception, reality began to intrude, not in the expected form of Radu’s prodding, but in the dry thickness at the back of her throat.  She swallowed heavily, trying to ignore it, but it would not be denied; she’d had nothing since the tiny sip from the Bloodstone the night before, and it was catching up with her, far more rapidly than it had in the past.  _Of course, _she realized, remembering the dizziness and the dryness of lips that had plagued her as soon as she had opened her night-eyes, _this__…__ burns.  It__’__s exhausting.  If it were like this all the time, we__’__d rule the world._  Strangely thrilled by the thought, she grinned, baring her fangs in the uncertain light, and threw her arms wide in exhilaration as she cast about for a suitable presence.  This new awareness reassured her, almost encouraged her, in a strange way; if someone repulsed her in _this _state, she could have few qualms about their potential innocence or unworthiness.  She would _know_, to the very marrow of her bones.

 

There had already been minds she’d shied away from, their light sputtering, crackling, or dim; she returned to those now for a closer look, certain she would find what she sought in one of them.  Nausea tightened the tendons in her jaw as she skipped past most of them as quickly as she could; madness, the bleak, choking mire of true insanity, was hardly palatable.  Depression, loneliness, and fear could kill a man’s mind as surely as any inborn ailment; she had quite enough of those to deal with on her own.  But there was one she’d passed, almost dazzling in its intermittent brilliance, that pulsed so violently it almost seemed to shoot sparks… where?... there… he had… oh, _there__…_

 

Her physical form was moving before she realized it; and even then she was uncertain whether she ran or covered the distance in a stretch of shadow.  She could feel her legs pumping, straining for distance, but there was no way she could be running this quickly; nevertheless, she had never been able to see, not quite like this, when she flowed through the night as part of its darkness.  The world was reduced to grays and blacks, frozen charcoal sketches quickly replaced, rendered in details finer than any mortal artist had ever dreamed of capturing.  Radu ghosted along behind her, black against blackness, but for the first time she was unconcerned by his overwhelming presence; it didn’t matter, _nothing _mattered save the blazing, guttering life ahead of her.

A street corner, nondescript, bedraggled cars parked along the intersection, traffic lights blinking in confusion.

 

An old woman, wrapped against the rain in an engulfing shawl, pushing a rusty shopping cart and looking over her shoulder fearfully.

 

A horse poking its head over a battered wooden fence, half-chewed straw dangling from its lips, utterly unconcerned by its own incongruency.

 

Another alley, wider than the last; perhaps even a small street, though equally deserted.  Dumpsters and the burned-out hulk of a panel truck lined its sides, confusing the sharpest of eyes.  But at its end, _him._

 

There was no sound save the pained, awkward shuffle of his steps.  She ceased her flight, catching her feet with a light stumble, spreading her arms for balance as her lips peeled back from her teeth of their own accord.  Her vision hazed even further, everything but the object of her hunt disappearing in a thick gray mist: a nondescript, youngish man, shaggy blonde hair escaping from under a flat cap, bundled up in several layers of flannel, he limped along as quickly as he could manage, seeking relief from the penetrating downpour.  Her lip curled even further in a sneer; he seemed so insignificant, so _pathetic_, to be responsible for the horrors he had committed; she could not as yet hold a candle to his career of atrocities.  She wondered if she should confront him; spin him around, grab his face, refuse to release him until he told her their names, their stories, his regret for what he’d done to them.  Instead, she had time only for a dim, muted corner of her mind to whimper _Oh God, what am I doing?_ before she pounced, covering the last distance between them in one long bound.

 

He gave a muffled grunt as she slammed into him, more surprised than frightened; his form was slight under the layers of clothes, but even with his injured leg sturdy enough to avoid being bowled over.  She recoiled for a second at the stench that rose off him, a mélange of sweat, ground in dirt, and onions, but quickly pressed her advantage and clawed at the scarf around his neck as she wrapped her other arm around his chest, bracing her feet and holding him immobile.  He gave a startled shout, then, flailing ineffectually; but she ripped the filthy knitting from his neck and plunged her razored eyeteeth into the base of his dirty throat.

 

Oh.

 

_Oh._

 

All pretenses to rational thought, or even consciousness, were subsumed for an unknowable stretch of time in the scalding, lustrative gush of blood.  The body sagged against her and she worried at the throat, widening the delicious wounds before withdrawing her fangs and clamping her lips around the holes. It was all she could do to keep up with the torrential flow, swallowing frantically, and even still some escaped to run down the corners of her mouth in scarlet trickles.  For a time her world collapsed into the working of her jaw, the lapping of her tongue, and that hot, revivifying rush of fluid, as insensate and single-minded as a nursing newborn.

At length, the flow slackened, but was nowhere near ceasing; she clutched the body tightly, its back pressing against her breasts, its ribs creaking a muffled protest at the renewed ardency of her grasp.  She began to return to herself slowly, by degrees, still held thoroughly rapt by the stream of life that issued from her prey.  It hadn’t been like this before, not the fiddler, not the boy, not even the Bloodstone: no cool, ancient power, no choked-down revulsion, no satiation of desperate, confused need.  This blood _burned,_ a trail of nourishing fire that rushed down her gullet, warming her extremities, filling places she hadn’t known were empty with a soothing, fulfilling heat.  The taste was indescribable, but beyond ambrosia; not the salty, coppery tang she had expected, knowing it from previous experience, but thick, rich, and sublime.  She didn’t know why this was so—absence of the Bloodstone’s influence, her heightened state of sensitivity, the fact that she hadn’t been starving this time; but she gloried, _exulted _in it.  She pressed her face against its neck, firmly ignoring the sour smell of unwashed flesh that began to invade her nostrils; as long as she immersed herself in feeding, she could reject everything else, shove aside pragmatic worries and strive to drown herself in that crimson tide.

 

Her prey wheezed, a strangely hollow, breathy sound, and scrabbled its heels against the concrete for purchase, thrusting itself back against her.  Aggravated by what she perceived as a last, futile bid for freedom, she squeezed even harder, quickly adjusting her grip to prevent it from flailing its arms, never once parting her lips from its neck.  It wheezed again, this time managing the faint hint of a whine, and shoved itself against her breasts even harder.  A quelling growl rose in the back of her throat, but died before it could escape as she saw the reason for its renewed struggles: Radu, limned in prismatic streetlight and unspeakably ghastly, had closed the distance between them, and even now was lowering his mouth to the other side of its throat.

 

She froze for a moment, nonplussed, swallowing mechanically as she assessed the situation.  She felt the prey tense as she heard the fleshy, gelatinous tear of Radu’s fangs sinking into its neck; it ceased its struggles and sagged bonelessly in their conjoined embrace as if finally accepting the inevitability of its fate.  They drank together for a few heartbeats, and Michelle was distantly, giddily pleased: this was right, this was _correct, _sharing, yielding, partaking together... it satisfied some impulse she had not known until now she had possessed, engendered a strange, primal feeling of participating, _belonging.  _Yet at the same time, some small part of her protested its dismay at the ease of its dispossession: she had found it, caught it, it was _hers_, to share or keep as she wished; she hadn’t invited him, he hadn’t _asked.  _

 

As if a savage hound had just snapped its chains, territorial rage and black, bloody fury suddenly boiled within her.  He had goaded her into this hunt, forced her into this pursuit, relentlessly pushed her into the chase, and now that she had succeeded he would not even allow her to feed in peace, meant to mantle her and intrude on her prey?  He who presumed to call himself her master also presumed to steal her sustenance?  _No.  _No, no, a thousand times _no.  _ 

 

With a vicious, bestial snarl she released its body, sidestepped, and sprang at him, leaping forward as it crumpled into a tangled heap of limbs.  Radu stumbled back a few steps, surprised by the sudden force of her assault, and as he reached up to grasp her biceps she seized the lapels of his long woolen coat, shoving him backwards once more.  She had no idea what she truly meant to do--even startled, he seemed a thousand times faster than she--but she would be _damned _if she would let him get away with this unchallenged; she could score him, slash him, _something _to show that she was not easy pickings.  Her arms were tangled in his grip, but she bulled forward once more; one arm wrapped around her waist as his shoulders slammed against the side of the stone building, and she bared her teeth in a bloody rictus, lunging forward--

 

\--and somehow they were kissing, lips sealed against loss of contact, and that was good, that was _fine.  _She sought his mouth as hungrily as she had the prey’s throat, lost in a welter of sensations: the taste of its blood on his tongue, the rough abrasion on her soft flesh, the shocking, liquid iciness of his lips against her own, suffused with stolen heat.  He pulled her tightly against his body as he slouched against the wall to level their heights, legs splayed to keep their bodies close, and she whimpered in surprise at the needle-like sting of pain as her lower lip snagged on one of his outer fangs, opening a thin, bloody weal.  He shuddered as he reached up to cup her cheek, his other hand pressing into the small of her back as he carefully lapped at the wound, scrape and scratch, searching for that commingling of essences.

 

She whimpered again and buried her hands in his hair, pulling his head down to resume their kiss. He responded eagerly, his lips firm and rough, heedless of the smeared blood as he stroked her cheek, her jaw, the curve of her ear, his talons sharp and ticklish.  His mouth was unbelievably cold, soothing and quenching after the almost unbearable heat of the prey’s neck, and she sought it gladly, searchingly.  He turned his head, gripping her jaw to keep her still as she attempted to move with him, and slowly, deliberately drew his tongue along one of her delicately pointed fangs.

 

Her hands clenched around fistfuls of his hair as the taste hit her, dragging his mouth even more forcefully against hers as she drank from him.  She remembered this taste, would never, ever forget it; even in the depths of her self-loathing and hatred, weakened and sickened by a rapidly rising dawn, she had been unable to resist its lure. Her rapturous, greedy reaction to it had caused her to vow her eternal hatred of him; she had been unable to understand how something so loathsome and inhuman had been able to command such a response from her, so she had cursed him and cursed it for her inability to accept it.  Yet she thought she understood, now, having seen what she’d seen and felt what she’d felt this wild, unpredictable night: his blood was _dark,_ thick and ancient with centuries of power, ferocity, magic and dominance that suffused her with its gifts with every droplet; no fey construct of sorcery and artifice like the Bloodstone, this was real, the quintessence that only ages of survival and conquest could create.  Never in a dozen lifetimes would she have been able to experience something like this had he not been willing to grant it to her, and she sought it ravenously, desperately, reveling in the reflection of dark glory.

 

She whined piteously when he pulled away, so caught up in the rapture of taste and touch she felt bereft as its loss, but he only moved to nuzzle her temple.  Reaching back with one hand, he swept his long, dark hair away from his neck with a brush of spidery fingers and raised his saturnine jaw, using his other to guide her head to the pale column of his exposed throat.  Almost shocked, she rested her cheek against him for a moment, but the pressure at the back of her skull urged her on.  She kissed him experimentally, once, twice, three times, lightly on the place where his pulse would have beat; he sighed, lightly kneading the base of her neck as his other hand returned to clasp her waist.  She caught a fold of leathery skin between her flat incisors, nipping gently to determine its elasticity, then cut into him roughly, savagely sinking her fangs home.

 

Radu shuddered against her, claws puncturing her flank as his hand flexed convulsively, but the pain of the wounds was obscured in the simple, mindless pleasure of biting, the tactile bliss of pressure against her gums.  She chewed gently, heedless of the unnecessary ripping of his flesh, marveling at the strange sensation of his skin jumping against her mouth as his throat hitched in a gasp; but no spurt of revivifying blood greeted her attentions.  Slowly, savoring every movement, she withdrew her teeth from the holes she’d pierced with them, eliciting another shiver from him as she lingered to run her tongue along the ragged wounds she’d rent in him; then, unable to restrain herself any longer, she clamped her lips around the tooth marks and began to suck, steadily and inexorably, lapping eagerly at the tattered lesions.

 

They both moaned as the first flow of liquid hit her tongue, cool, thick, and viscous.  His hand slid from her neck to cup the base of her skull, pressing her against his throat, but she needed no further urging; her jaw worked mechanically, teasing as much of the precious vitality from him as she could.  He trembled in her arms, his knees beginning to buckle, so she leaned against him, helping to pin him to the wall with her own weight.  He turned his head awkwardly, resting his chin against the top of her head and whispering something to her, his voice low and lustful, but the words were lost to her as anything other than the purring vibration she felt through his throat.  It didn’t matter; nothing mattered except that taste, that sense, that steady, enervating ebb of cool, inexorable strength. 

 

He raised his hand to stroke her back, his claws trailing lightly against the thin fabric of her dress, the sensation nearly overwhelming in her excited, heightened state.  She had no sense of time, of place, of surroundings; only of Radu and the precious gift he gave her.  She wondered, distantly, if she could kill him like this, drain him as dry as a mortal man, and found the idea inspired not lust or vengeance but fear; for even if she could manage such a feat, she would never again be able to experience this ecstatic communion, this unholy bond.  Disturbed, she threw herself into her ministrations with renewed vigor, grateful for the fact that he seemed willing to let her continue for as long as she liked; she abandoned all thought of anything save him, his blood, the pale imitation of his majesty that it imparted to her.

 

At length he raised an unsteady hand to stroke her hair, and spoke again, solemn and tender, but she was insensate to any reason.  He slid his hands down her sides to cup her flanks, gently pushing her away, but she whimpered in protest, burying her face against his neck and pressing herself closer, crushing her breasts against his narrow chest.  “Enough,” he rasped, tired and distinct. “You must finish him.”

 

“No,” she protested, responding more to his tone than his words, loath to part from him even that little, “no, this—“

 

_“Enough,” _he repeated harshly, grasping the back of her neck.  She lunged forward, once more burying her fangs in his neck, seeking to anchor herself to him as firmly as she could.  With a low growl, he seized her by the scruff of her neck and hurled her from him.  Shocked by the sudden movement, her teeth snagging in his flesh, she spun away from him, unable to find her balance, and fell to her hands and knees on the dirty, wet pavement with a jarring thud.  Confused and stunned, she raised her head to regard him dumbly, strands of damp hair hanging in her face.  He sagged against the wall, a smug, contented smile curving his full lips, and raised a hand to cover the slight trickle that oozed from the wounds in his neck.  _Stop it, you’re _wasting _it! _she wanted to cry, but he pointed past her with his other hand, the bony index finger uncurling to show the way.  “Quickly, now.” 

 

Uncertain as to what he was being so insistent about, she hoisted herself up right, rising unsteadily to one knee, and turned to look over her shoulder for the object of his attention.  For a moment, she could only blink stupidly as details of the world around here once more resumed prominence, the persistent patter of the rain dominating her attention as she struggled to resolve the purpose of the jumble of rags piled before her.  Rags and meat.  Rags and meat and—

 

\--the man.  Uli Korsch.  The man who’d done all of those things to… the man _she’d _done all those things to… the one she’d… “Oh God,” she whispered in a high, strangled voice, and clasped her hands to her belly as she bent double, retching.

 

_“No.”  _Radu’s arms were around her, forcing her upright, yanking her head back so she stared straight upward, wide eyes stung by starlight and rainfall.  _“Don’t,” _he insisted as she gagged, jaws working convulsively as she choked on the thick ichor that struggled to eject itself from her system.  He grasped her throat with his free hand, stroking her esophagus roughly, forcing her to swallow, to choke it back.  Gritting her teeth, she hacked once more, shuddering, but managed to hold it down.  He released her throat, transferring his grip to her biceps.  “Finish him,” he told her urgently as he pushed her forward.  “Time grows short.”

 

Michelle stumbled forward as he released her, nose and throat burning as she regarded the pitiful form sprawled on the ground before her.  His chest still rose and fell, shallowly and slowly, but his throat was a bloody red ruin of shredded flesh, torn so badly little save his spine held him together.  She had no idea how he could still be alive; the damage was so severe that it was not even revolting, merely alien, utterly unlike anything she had seen before.  Pressing her fists to her mouth, she was utterly unaware of the high, keening whine that had begun to issue from her own throat as she shrank away.  Her memories were a scattered whirl of sounds, smells, sights, images, nothing she could reconcile, nothing she could make sense of.  _She had done this._  She had selected this man, stalked him, hunted him, and _she had done this to him._

 

His chest hitched as he made a gurgling, gooey sound, and she flinched, poised to flee, but Radu was still behind her.  _“Now,” _he snarled, shoving her forward once more, so hard that she nearly tripped over the poor, mangled carcass before her, but it was to no avail; his chest did not rise again.  Radu made a guttural noise of disgust, flinging his hands wide in frustration, and turned away from her.

 

“I—oh God, I—“

 

“You will learn to deal with the consequences of your defiance,” Radu told her acidly.  He propped himself against the wall once more, legs crossed and arms folded across his chest, lip curled in a disdainful sneer, and refused to say any more.

 

Consequences... She stifled another gag, raising her hand to her lips, and wiped frantically at her mouth with the back of her wrist.  The dark red stains that quickly soaked into the sleeve did little to reassure her and she quickly dropped her arms, fingers splayed, overwhelmed not by the horror of the corpse before her, but by the inescapable knowledge that she had caused this.  Not even the young man from the concert, that frightened, desperate night in the night club, had been this bad; a great deal of gore for such a small wound, but that had been due to her inexperience and hesitancy.  He might even have been able to survive it.  Not so this man.  This one had been... had been _savaged, _torn apart so violently it was almost impossible to tell what might have happened to him.

 

Not unless one knew.  As Michelle did, intimately and inexorably. 

 

But something else tickled at the back of her mind as she stood there, frozen with revulsion and self-loathing, something even more incomprehensibly awful than the gruesome crime before her.  That young man, with his long curly locks, might have been able to survive--most certainly would have, had she summoned help, had she not fled the unacceptable fulfillment of her brutal new needs--but this one had never had a chance, not with the last trickles of blood escaping from what had one been his throat even now swirling pinkly down a crack in the pavement.  Radu had exhorted her to _finish him_, was aggravated and disappointed that she had not--

 

The grating, nasal scream cut through both her confusion and her musings with the rusty intensity of a buzz saw as the wilted figure before her thrashed, its tangled limbs straightening in a convulsion of pain.  Michelle screamed too, then, choking and gasping, as the realization of what had just come to pass sank home.

 

_To rise again in darkness, one must _die.  And so this one had, left to struggle for his last tortuous breaths in a heap on the ground as she had indulged her perverted lust; denied the mercy of a clean kill, whatever unholy change that allowed them to continue their existence had been wrought on his abused flesh, and now he struggled once more, this time to make sense of whatever new, alien cruelty had been forced upon him.  His limbs were stiff, and seemed reluctant to obey his commands as he thrust them aimlessly at the ground, striving for purchase; the tatters of skin that remained of his neck swayed and swung as his body jerked with the strenuous movements.  The hoarse, keening cry still issued from his throat, the best his ripped vocal cords and punctured trachea could manage.

 

“I’m so sorry,” she told him frantically, uselessly, reduced by the sight of his pathetic awakening to mindless hysteria.  “I didn’t mean for this to happen--I--I wanted to _punish_ you, that was all, you were just supposed to _die_\--”

 

“Your greeting for your new fledgling is as poor as that for your master,” Radu rumbled, his voice close in her ear, thick with disdain.  “Is he not everything you had hoped?”

 

She spun to face him, but only bumped her shoulder into his chest; he had departed his casual repose on the wall and once more stood behind her.  “Radu--Radu, _please, _please fix this,” she begged despondently.  “I didn’t mean to do this--”

 

“Yet you _waited, _pretty one; you ignored my words, and let him die.”  His bony fingers cut into her shoulders like brands as he forced her to regard the crippled efforts of the broken thing before her.  “And now he waits for you, my pretty one.”  A hand forced her head up, forced her to fix her gaze on the product of her neglect.  “The young are so often ravenous.”

 

Even as he spoke, the man managed to roll over onto his belly and thrust a hand out towards them, his fingers grasping and searching, the endless, unceasing whine taking on a new, desperate tenor as he struggled to raise himself on one elbow.  _He can’t talk, _she thought with piteous horror, _we’ve done this to him and he can’t even talk_\--

 

“Look_,”_ Radu growled into her ear.  _“Look, _and see what reward your failure to heed has brought you.”

 

The man had managed to lever himself up enough that he was no longer face down in the muck, and now raised his face to them, craning his neck at an unnatural, impossible angle afforded him by the severed tendons.  His eyes were wide and uncomprehending, giving mute testimony to his fright and panic at the agonizing, inexplicable nature of his plight.  The simple panic in his gaze was too much for Michelle: she could not deal with this, could not accept it any longer; she sagged bonelessly as a gray haze washed across her vision, collapsing into Radu’s iron embrace.  “Please,” she entreated, no longer having the slightest idea of what she begged for, seeking only release from the harshness of reality, “please, master, _please...”_

His grip around her eased, the arm supporting her waist almost gentle.  He carefully hoisted her upright, cautiously setting her on her feet; she stumbled as he released her, but managed to retain her balance.  She scrubbed at her eyes with the back of a palm, heedless of the gore growing tacky on it, shaking her head in an attempt to dispel the throbbing dizziness.  Radu remained close behind her, as if poised to catch her in a fall, and it was a sign of how overwrought she was that she almost found that comforting; but his next words dispelled any illusion of support she might have had.  “No.  Keep it or kill it… but see to it.”

 

“Wh-wh-_what?”_

 

“Even now, your fledgling seeks you.”  An expansive gesture of Radu’s long, bony hand returned her attention to the pathetic wreckage reaching out for her.  “Grant it patronage, or grant it surcease; I will not permit a broken thing such as this to wander astray.”

 

“I—I—I _can’t_—“

 

“You _must._”

 

Michelle slowly shook her head in stupid, numb rejection.  She hadn’t meant for any of this to happen, but caught up in the dark rapture of that new vision, it had all made so much sense: who better to prey upon than another predator, a petty, vicious little man who exploited and abused the weak?  Giving him a taste of his own medicine didn’t even seem like choosing the lesser of two evils, it had seemed _right, _appropriate, dying by the sword as he had chosen to live by it.  But he and his hot, pumping vitality had seemed as nothing next to the endless, ageless fount that Radu had offered, his urgings, his temptation... it had distracted her, turned her head, enough to create the misery before her that even now scrabbled to rise.

 

_Your fledgling.  Grant it patronage._  Oh, God, this was her offspring, her _child_; where she had balked at committing murder, she had instead granted life, of a sort, condemned another to the bleakness of undeath.  Her squeamishness had birthed a horror greater than any she had ever dreamed of committing, but even now she could not bring herself to dispatch it, no matter how unnatural a thing it must be to make even Radu uneasy.  She had chosen not to suicide--though she had judged his crimes wicked enough to merit death, she was not certain he, or anyone, deserved to die twice.  Cautiously, fighting against muscles that screamed at her to run, she edged forward, taking a deep breath to steady herself.  She meant to offer it a hand, help it to stand up, but could not force herself to raise her arm.  It was simply--

 

_“Tu!  _Tu acolo!  Ce care merge?”

 

She and Radu both whipped around at the sudden shout.  At the mouth of the alley, peering through the drizzle, were a couple shrouded in heavy jackets who had paused in consternation, apparently having witnessed enough of the scene to be alarmed.  “Cine acolo?”

 

“Acum pecare,” Radu snapped, followed by a torrent of liquid, purring Romanian too quick for her to follow.  She startled, as surprised at his command of the language as much as by the fact that he deigned to speak to their interrogators; of _course _he spoke it, it was probably his native tongue.

 

Whatever he said to them did not have the desired effect; one of the pair, an unshaven, middle-aged man, stepped forward hesitantly.  The tone of his next words was inquisitive, but his voice had hardened, as if he realized he had caught them at something unsavory.  Inopportunely, her victim chose that moment to emit another of his high, whistling whines.  Radu hissed angrily, and the man drew himself up defensively.  _He’s going to kill them, too_, she thought with sinking dread.  These poor good Samaritans were going to be slaughtered for their trouble if she couldn’t think of something; but she was long since out of ideas.

 

Radu’s lips skinned back from his teeth as a low, feral growl rumbled from his chest; the man’s companion flinched, but neither turned to flee as Radu advanced on them.  “Meu Dumnezeu,” the man breathed as Radu drew close enough to be seen clearly, drawing out of the shadows like a nightmare given flesh.  “Politie!” he shouted to his companion.  “Vara politie!”  They both spun and pounded off into the night, their feet splashing heedlessly through the stinking puddles.

 

He snarled, a vicious, guttural sound of fury and frustration as he rounded on Michelle, his coat sodden enough to tangle around his long legs, but instead of tearing through the night after the fleeing witnesses, he covered the distance between himself and her victim with two great strides.  She watched in sick fascination as he bent down and grabbed the man by the hair; by the time she realized what he meant to do, it was already too late to do more than hold out an entreating hand.

 

Her victim’s head parted from the remnants of his neck with a wet, gristly tearing sound; she wound never forget the fact that flesh _squeaked _when it ripped, that spines made a cartoonish pop when their vertebrae were forcibly separated.  She whimpered as she saw gobbets of something too thick to be mistaken for raindrops fall from the stump; it looked unreal, ridiculous, a bad special effect from some third rate horror movie.  But the smell, oh God, the _smell..._

Radu seized ahold of her arm, roughly hauling her away from the beheaded corpse; she resisted weakly, but he quieted her struggles with a savage shake.  “I should leave you to them,” he spat as he wrapped the wings of shadow around them both, swirling through the darkness in a frantic race for home.

 

*          *          *

The storm was worse in Prejnar; no mere penetrating drizzle, lightning and thunder raved through the skies, lashing the air with a lethal, electrical fervor. Passing through it _stung_, a vibrating, bone-deep sensation, bizarre and unpleasant enough that she was almost relieved when they resolved themselves once more in the great hall. The shock of flesh was unexpected and the momentum flung her, stumbling, to her hands and knees; she lowered her head, pressing her forehead against the cool, gritty stone, sucking in deep, cleansing breaths to flush her lungs of the city’s miasma.

 

“I have treated you gently,” Radu grated in a careful, measured tone. “I have allowed you your will in most things, I have permitted this madness of picking and choosing among the cattle, and still, _still_ you cannot obey me, not in the slightest way!”&lt;&gt;

 

“I’m not like you,” she said to the floor. The curious calm still suffused her; there was, she supposed, a point where the brain encountered more horror than it could encompass and shut itself down in self defense, merely processing events as they happened. “I will never be like you. I can’t _do_ this, not this way.” She pushed herself up slowly, back crackling as she straightened to a kneeling position and saw, with detached, crazed amusement, that Radu still clutched the severed head of her victim. His eyes followed her gaze.

 

“This? This is _unnecessary._” He flung it away with mincing, irritated disgust; it rolled into the shadows behind the throne, where it excited a brief, noisy squabble amongst the subspecies. “You prate of what a foul existence I have thrust upon you, yet you condemn another to it heedlessly. Your shirking prolonged his suffering--brought _witnesses _down upon us!” He raked the wet hair from his eyes, and she was surprised to note honest, naked alarm upon his face. “You and your brave band were a poor excuse for hunters, but your lack of discretion may yet earn you a demonstration of technique if we are unlucky!”&lt;&gt;

 

“Then why didn’t you kill them, too?” she asked with a sudden spark of the old anger.

 

“Because I knew that you would plague me with it,” he said, bitter self-loathing making a whip of his words; the laughter that followed had nothing of humor in it. “It is not enough that I have extinguished my entire line for your benefit--let your gentle heart contemplate what misery _that _has spared the world!--but that I must risk myself as well! Do you still cherish notions that you would long survive my destruction? Do you still wish us _both_ dead?”&lt;&gt;

 

“Yes!” she shouted, leaping to her feet. “Yes, I do, if it means we have to live like this! Radu, we committed _murder _tonight, we...” She broke off, raising fingers to her lips as the ghostly memory of her fangs in his neck, the coolness of his leathery skin, the indescribable, enervating taste of his blood washed over her. “We...”&lt;&gt;

 

“We hunted at _your _whim, risked ourselves to find prey _you _found suitable for your delicate sensibilities, if not your palate.” He threw his hands up in frustrated anger. “I would grant you what freedoms I can, but I wonder that your mind is not more unhinged than it appears! The Bloodstone carries many gifts, but it is _poison_\--that man had not even done _murder _to so offend you, the young ones all survived--”&lt;&gt;

 

“No, you _wouldn’t _understand, would you?” she asked coldly. She gritted her teeth as she remembered the nauseating touch of that man’s mind, how twisted his desires were, even more compulsive than hers; she would not wish his fate on anyone, but she could not bring herself to feel much regret at his death. “You can’t see that as a crime because it’s exactly what you do, isn’t it? Preying on the young, victimizing the weak, taking advantage...” She stopped as she caught sight of him and realized the import of her words.

 

If her anger was cold, his fury was icy; he stood stock-still, as if graven in stone, his head cocked in that watchful, assessing posture that so often presaged mayhem, but the mortified, enraged wrath rolling off him could not have been more evident had he screamed and foamed. He flexed his fingers once, and she saw that the joint she had torn from him had not regenerated; the pinky had healed into a smooth, wealed stub, its end bluntly talonless. _I’ll have to kill it, _she thought with sick despair, _I’ll have to kill it and see if he dies, if I can only get through this._ Surely he would strike her, bleed her, punish her somehow for this perceived impertinence; but even as she realized that, the last of the anxiety drained away. There would be no happy ending to this, and it was foolish to hope for one; she had willingly placed herself in his power once more, and would have to deal with the consequences. She was still relatively certain he wouldn’t kill her.

 

“Is that what you see?” he asked softly, the quietness almost stripping his voice of its accustomed harshness. “Is that how you understand? How _human _of you.”&lt;&gt;

 

“Radu, I’m--I’ve never killed like that before,” she said half-heartedly, unable to bring herself to apologize, even to placate him. “I didn’t do it... well. But...”&lt;&gt;

 

“You refuse,” he said, his voice still silken. “You will not be taught, you will not be told, you will not be shown, you will not be _bribed_; you will not accept your new position in the world.” He raised his head, regarding her down his long, aquiline nose, and folded his hands behind his back, seeming almost to steel himself. “But you are not a feckless child any longer, to disregard that which you find unpleasant. I have tried in every way I know to teach you this, as it is utterly imperative; if I must violate your flesh as well, then so be it.”&lt;&gt;

 

“What--”&lt;&gt;

 

He was on her before she had a chance to finish framing the question, slamming into her with sudden, silent movement. She fought instinctively and they stumbled backwards in a tangle of limbs until the wooden edge of the ancient feasting table caught her sharply in the small of the back. “Be _still,”_ he growled as he seized a handful of the front of her dress. She managed to get her arms between them, meaning to shove him away, but he heaved her upright and slammed her back flat on the table, lunging forward to press her down with his bodyweight, trapping her arms between their chests.

 

She squirmed unhappily, revolted at the unwanted closeness; he was still soaked, and icy with the autumn chill, his wet hair slapping her face as he grabbed her chin and forced her head to the side. So he did mean to bleed her, then; she tried to force herself to relax, to lie still, to wait for it to be over. It wasn’t so bad; she’d survived it before; hopefully it would leave him as somnolent as it had in the past, giving her an opportunity to ensure it was the last time he ever laid a tooth on anyone.

 

She shivered queasily as his lips brushed her throat, hovering over the base of the large vein; she had almost braced herself for the inevitable, ripping puncture when he shoved a knee between her thighs.

 

“Hey--!” Her feet scrabbled at the floor for purchase as she tried to sit up. He pressed closer as she unwittingly parted her thighs for him, one hand pinning her down, the other slipping under her skirt, hiking it up. She only realized that he truly meant to do it when his nails gouged the jut of her hip as he shoved his fingers under the waistband of her panties.

 

“Oh God, _no._ You _can’t!_” she cried in disbelief, beginning her struggles anew, almost desultorily; this _could not_ be happening, could not could not _could not._ But the sharp dig of elastic as her panties were torn away assured her that it was, and she kicked out wildly, bunching her arms to shove at him with all of her strength. He forced her down once more, using his superior heft to keep her pinned as his fingers wrapped around her throat like iron pincers. The crack as the back of her head met the wooden table was too enormous for pain; the overwhelming wash of sensation stunned her, leaving her dazed and limp as he fumbled with his trousers. His hand loosened, but remained on her throat as he pushed her back, head lolling, to support more of her weight on the table. She blinked fiercely, trying to regain her momentum, uncertain for the moment what she had been trying to accomplish; but not even the haze of concussion could protect her from the pain and humiliation as Radu hoisted her legs up and, quickly and without preamble, thrust himself roughly inside her.

 

She cried out, then, a thin, disconsolate, shattered sound of loss. He ground his hips against hers, penetrating as deeply as he could, and she choked herself off abruptly, fearful he would interpret it as some sign of pleasure or, worse, delight in the sound of her agony and be encouraged to further experimentation. He lay still upon her for a moment, cheek pressed against hers, long enough for her to conceive a wild hope that he might withdraw, let her up, let her _go_; but the abrasive pain of his short, sharp thrusts soon disabused her of that notion.

  
_I’m being raped,_she thought dumbly, as her body shook to the rhythm of his unsought attentions. Her face pressed against his shoulder, and the wet wool of his coat filled her nose with a smell of aged lanolin. His fingers remained wrapped around her throat, his claws gently tickling the soft flesh beneath her chin. The table dug into her roughly, scraping her tailbone as it bounced against the splintered edge. _He’s raping me._ In eerie silence: no sounds of pleasure, no gasps, no panting, merely the wet slap of flesh against flesh.&lt;/p&gt;

“No,” she whispered brokenly, _“no.” _She kicked out feebly, one last pathetic act of defiance; he grunted softly into her ear, raising his free hand to support her buttocks as he leaned against her even harder, never for a moment breaking his stroke. She bit back another wail of violation and terror, forcing herself to go limp, lie still, remain frozen, to not give a hint, an inkling, a notion that she might be interested in this, might be enjoying herself; surely he would get irritated, get bored, get tired, and leave her be if she gave no indication of any response.

 

It was easier than she thought it would be once she began to stare at the ceiling, frantically forcing her mind to focus on the cracks and cobwebs. It didn’t hurt as badly as she thought it might. The sharpest pain was from the small of her back, twisted cruelly against the edge of the table; his thrusts were simply invasive, now, their unnatural, unnerving coldness a prodding intrusion that was inescapable, but survivable. Just lie back, be still, wait... wait... don’t pay attention, just… wait…&lt;&gt;

 

She lost track of time, refused to let herself keep track of it; no need to care, to notice, to do more than simply exist, to ignore the prick of his claws at the curve of her throat and the swell of her hip, to pretend the insistent pressure of his thrusts didn’t matter. Soon enough—too long—a time later she was distracted from her self-imposed mental exile by his claws digging sharply into her hip. The fingers around her throat clenched tightly, but flexed away before they could do much harm, splayed tightly as he hissed with his climax, cold breath in her ear, ice water in her loins, a shuddering, trembling cessation.

 

He remained like that for a time, sheathed in her submission, his braced hand their only support against the table, but she didn’t mind terribly; he had _stopped, _making it so much easier to focus on the threaded seams of the great arched ceiling above them. He raised himself on one elbow and looked down at her, but she refused to meet his gaze, utterly uninterested in what she might find there. Eventually he straightened, withdrawing from her with one last stab of pain; she had to quickly brace her feet lest she slither to the floor. She heard the rustle of him rearranging his garments; a moment later, he gingerly took the edge of her dress between thumb and forefinger and pulled it down.

 

“Was that,” he asked finally, “truly necessary?” He reached out again, as if to stroke her.

 

It took her a moment to realize the soft, keening whimper was coming from herself; rather than formulate an intelligent answer, she scooted back onto the table, rolled over onto her side, and slowly drew her knees up to her chest. Curling up in the fetal position seemed the only appropriate response to the situation, given the details; she might wish for a corner to rock in, a padded room in which to flail about, a basket to weave, but none presented themselves. He watched her still, with the unwavering attention of the ancient predator, but she was unmoved. He would go away. Or the sun would rise, and there would be oblivion. Either way. She could wait.

 

The silence stretched interminably, but she merely hugged her knees more tightly. Presently, she heard the soft movement of air as he finally lowered his outstretched arm, and allowed herself a small measure of relief. “I must tie up your loose ends,” he said at length, followed soon by the unusual sound of his retreating footsteps.

 

He was leaving.

 

Perhaps she could leave, too.

 

No. No, not yet. Not without the Bloodstone, she wouldn’t go through this again, not for _anything, _and she hadn’t yet figured out where he had hidden it. Besides, the table was almost pleasant now, firm and supportive, making no demands of her. It could wait. She could wait. There was time. She was going to live forever.

 

Live forever, just like this.

 

She wasn’t sure how long she laid there; didn’t care, really, she wasn’t in a hurry. Hurrying would bring action; action would bring reality; reality would bring thought; thought would bring acceptance of what had just… happened. She could do without that for now. For quite awhile.

 

But her limbs grew painful after a time, protesting their constriction, and so she stretched, rolling onto her belly and pillowing her chin on her folded arms. She gazed around the hall disinterestedly; she seemed to be alone, even the subspecies having departed. The fury of the storm seemed to have mostly spent itself—no, bad metaphor; the fury of the storm seemed to have mostly blown over, though the rain still spattered down. She rose slowly, making her way to one of the narrow window embrasures, and peered out. The downfall continued unabated, and she was nearly blinded by one last, distant flash of lightning; she wished she had been when she realized what it had illuminated.

 

Perched on one of the tumbledown crenellations on the far side of the bailey was Radu Vladislas, hanging with his feet braced against the ruined parapet. She hoped for a moment that he had fallen, but the position seemed intentional; he balanced with his face turned upward, letting the rain beat down upon him, eyes shut tightly in an attitude of deep thought. He hadn’t left. He hadn’t gone anywhere.

 

Perhaps he would.

 

But… standing out in the rain. A shower. Yes. A shower would be nice.


	4. Chapter 4

The old woman had been the first. Technically, she supposed, the true first had been Lillian; but the old woman had been the first to die, for no greater crime than sharing the lore of the castle with three eager young girls, her corpse defiled and dismembered by her own neighbors.

 

Michelle did not even know her name.

 

_Then _had come Lillian. Her lips twisted with bitter humor at the memory of how they had acted when she had fallen ill, assuming it was tetanus or some sort of blood borne infection given her by the rusty castle door. Then Mara.

 

Then Stefan.

 

Then that poor boy in the nightclub—another innocent stranger she had never even bothered to identify. Then the fiddler. Then Professor Popescu. Then Bob. Then the secretary Radu had abducted from her evening constitutional along the streets of Bucharest.

 

And now... last night... the... the man who...

 

So many. _So many. _And so few _names. _What did that make her, then, if this only concerned her now? That those individual, special, unique lives had all been snuffed out, and she had taken no more notice than she had of any other part of this tragedy? “To begin to prepare you for what you must become,” Radu had said to her the night she agreed to follow him, and she shuddered at the memory. Had he even then sensed some unknown potential within her? The cold soul of a heartless killer? Was that why he pursued her so ardently—because he _knew _she was capable of joining him?

 

She drew her knees up to her chest, hugging herself tightly; a tattered, rotten carpet protected her rump from the worst of the floor’s chill--and, truly, she didn’t seem to be much affected by temperature any longer--but a pervasive cold clung to her bones, dogging her movements and deepening her unease. She wasn’t quite sure where she was within the castle, or what purpose this chamber might have served in a former incarnation, but it had seemed as good a place to stop as any when the melancholy overwhelmed her.

 

She had been doing so well.

 

She had woken up alone once more, now almost used to opening her eyes to a dank crypt rather than the friendly confines of a bedroom; had seemed to truly _be _alone as she made a brief and hesitant survey of the great hall. That was fine. That was wonderful. That made it possible for her to put it all aside for the moment, to focus on nothing more pressing than how filthy she was. Sweat, dirt, and body oils no longer seemed to present an issue for her, but the dress was done for, matted with dried blood and ground-in filth, and she hadn’t exactly had time to pack a change of clothes. Briefly considering attempting to make the subspecies find something for her, she set out to examine the castle’s many rooms; surely she would be able to find _something,_ and not have to stoop to stealing from clotheslines just yet.

 

And that, really, had been the thought that triggered it, innocuous as it seemed; her new status was so changed she was unable to even locate a pair of jeans for herself. How would that carry over? No one back home knew that she had... well, she _wasn’t _dead, so there would be no difficulties with the paperwork for now, but it would rise up to entangle her in a thousand little ways. Her bank accounts were still open, but she’d have to find a job with which to fill them, and there weren’t many overnight curator positions that she’d ever heard of. Even if there were one she could obtain, how would she get to it? Her driver’s license would expire in another year or two, and she wouldn’t be able to renew it after sundown. Vision tests, physical examinations, reflex tests... what would they reveal? How could she keep the horrible events of her unwitting ambulance ride from repeating themselves inadvertently? 

 

This wasn’t lupus, to be borne with heavy doses of sunscreen and a bit of patience and understanding. She had been telling herself it was merely a disease, something that could be dealt with and controlled with a little accommodation, but… no. There was no point in trying to fool herself any longer. Last night had shown her that in more ways than she could have imagined.

 

He had—

 

Michelle leapt to her feet and launched herself from the room, as if she could leave her recollections behind. Her heels clicked resoundingly in the narrow hallway—the soft shoes were an equal loss, but she held out no hopes of replacing them here—and entered the first doorway she passed, shouldering the battered door aside, heedless of its splinters.

 

All of the rooms along the upper gallery appeared to have been inhabited at some point; many still featured massive wooden bedsteads, some still bearing their rush-stuffed mattresses, heavily carved chests, thin dividing screens, and other accoutrements that betokened occupancy, and this one was no different.. She couldn’t guess at how long ago it may have been—she had never achieved much skill in eyeballing artifacts for their proper periods—but most of it seemed to suffer mere neglect and disuse, as opposed to rot and ruin. She knelt before the solid, darkly stained trunk at the foot of the bed; surely sturdy wool or heavy brocade might well have survived locked away in a chest like that.

 

The latch opened with surprising ease, as if eager to yield up its contents. She averted her face as she hoisted the lid up, but no puff of dust or wash of disused air greeted her; instead she found what appeared to be a pile of linens, pale, but only lightly yellowed with age, smelling faintly of the ghost of bitter herbs. Puzzled, she carefully lifted one end from the pile, cautious of anything that might be lurking within; her lip curled in distaste when she realized exactly what it was she had found. She had first seen one adorning Lillian, and had shed the one her friends had forcibly changed her into in the not too distant past: those strange white gowns, somewhere between a chemise and a chiton, which seemed the preferred mode of feminine dress at Castle Vladislas. _Well, it’ll cover everything, _she thought dispiritedly as she straightened, shaking the gown out in front of herself to ensure it was still intact. Were they some kind of uniform? A mark of honor, or servitude? Had some long gone resident of the castle favored them, or worn them as undergarments? Why so _many?_ Yet another of the endless mysteries that comprised her life these days—but small, almost silly, and thus easier to wrap her mind around.

 

Dismissing her curiosity for the moment, she laid the garment out carefully on the bed. She grabbed the edges of her skirt and stripped the dress off in one smooth movement, the sleeves sticking a bit where blood had crusted them over; she shuddered at the prickling sensation. The movement of air was strange against her nude body—she honestly couldn’t remember the last time she’d been fully undressed—so she reached quickly for the gown, bunching it up to facilitate dropping it down over her head. The fabric wasn’t simple linen, after all, but something smooth and sinuous that glided down her body with slinky ease. Yet her skin crawled as the fabric slid over her hips and buttocks; the sensation reminded her too much of bony fingers slithering over her skin, the inadvertent scrape of claws, the dull, pounding ache of--

 

Michelle shivered violently, wrapping her arms tightly around herself, biting her lip to stifle the low whimper. _Shock. It’s just shock. Shock and... hunger. _For there was another looming horror she could not entirely dismiss: the dry tickle at the back of her throat was no mere ailment, and ignoring it would not drive it from her thoughts; soon it would drive her, sending her forth from the castle to seek whatever she might find to alleviate it. 

 

It had taken her some time to locate the cache, its pivoted stone front blending smoothly with the almost seamless wall that housed it; figuring out how to work the catch, a tricky series of counterbalances, had taken even longer; yet she had been unsurprised, in a dull, hopeless way, to find it empty. Of _course _he had hidden the Bloodstone elsewhere, perhaps even carried it upon his person, or had stashed it away in the Bucharest crypt.

 

She had been foolish to think it would be a simple matter of spiriting herself away with such a prized and irreplaceable relic. Foolish to ever place herself within his reach willingly. Foolish to ever doubt his power.

 

_ Shock. Just shock, _ she tried to reassure herself, but even her thoughts rang hollow. _It’s easy to get discouraged. I’ve... had a bad night. But it’s not the end of the world. I’m not dead. Neither is Becky, neither is Mel. It could be worse. It’s... not so bad._

 

For therein lay the real crux of the nightmare, the awful truth she had sought to flee among the honeycombed chambers of the upper bailey: it had almost been a relief. Rape... sex... it was something she understood, could, in some wicked, primitive part of her mind, even relate to: power, aggression, dominance, all wrapped up in one vile, assertive act. 

 

But it was not supernatural. No blood, no black sorcery, no skills and visions beyond human ken. Radu had forced her into so many things… but now, now he had finally found one close to home, that might have befallen her in any situation. She had thought to outwit him, and had succeeded in some small part; but even now, with the benefit of her new abilities, speed and sight and shadow, she was still vulnerable to him in the most fundamental of ways; she was vulnerable to him in _all _ways.

 

He had asked her if it had truly been necessary.

 

The idea that he knew her well enough to use her own blind spots to goad her to suit his aims was truly terrifying. Perhaps he truly _did _know better. Perhaps it was time to give up her pretense to normalcy, her charade of humanity, and allow him to show her what horrors and wonders lay down the grim path she had unwittingly embarked upon with a willing heart. He _had _treated her fairly, in his own twisted, demanding way; she had only to recall the dark glory of lapping at his opened throat to know how open-handedly he meant to treat her. Perhaps it was time to revel in what he offered, rather than reject it.

 

She knew that was wrong. She knew that was sick. She knew that was the trauma she had suffered addling her rational mind. She wondered if it might not even be the bond he had spoken of, some strange, unlooked-for new instinct compelling her to cleave to the one who had engendered her.

 

She also wondered what it would be like to be bent over the trunk she still stood before, with his fangs buried in her as deeply as his cock had been. Perhaps both at the same time: the nights were long and full of wonders, if one truly meant to indulge.

 

And that was the hell of it. The excruciating, loathsome, undeniable hell of it.

 

Whirling on her bare heel, she strode from the room, suddenly possessed by some unspecified need for movement, _action_, anything to keep her mind free from the alarmingly unwholesome track it was following. Surely the Bloodstone was somewhere within reach, and wasting the time she had free of Radu’s attentions with fretting instead of searching for it wasn’t going to help her. Perhaps she could lay hands on that strange, stolen subspecies she had created, and discover just how well it worked as a voodoo doll. Perhaps she could simply flee into the night, if there were no other option available to her. Perhaps it was better to be a regretful murderer, for a time, at least, than it was to be the acolyte of such a creature as Vladislas, even if only for a short while.

 

She wasn’t certain what to do about Becky and Mel, though; was she even safe to be around them, in her current state? Her footsteps faltered as she rounded the curve of the main staircase, resuming at a more measured pace. If she left without them, Radu would surely kill them; the only question being whether he would keep them in an attempt to lure her back, or slaughter them outright in a rage. But if she went to them… what if _she_ hurt them? All of their plans had always been predicated on her possession of the Bloodstone. Without it, she was little better than the one she sought to flee; guilt did not excuse act, and she somehow doubted Becky would blithely accept Michelle’s choice to draw sustenance from the ranks of outlaws.

 

Mel might well, though. Michelle had always wondered at the deep reserves his implacable pragmatism hinted at. And Mel might be able to talk Becky around. Mel might also shoot her, put her out of everyone’s misery; but she bet he would do her the kindness of making sure she never saw it coming.

 

Yet she could not take solace in the nobility of her resolve as she padded into the great hall. Once she would have vowed that being at Radu’s side was a fate worse than death. Once she would have fought for her life last night, would have preferred being killed to submitting to that. Once she wouldn’t have wondered what it was like to share a kill with him, free from guilt or shame; to gorge themselves and rut in an orgy of sustenance, sensation, _superiority._

 

She needed to leave. Oh, God, she needed to get away from him, no matter the cost.

 

_ Right. Okay. One last check. _ She’d never been very far into the interior of the castle; while she suspected most of it was as disused as the upstairs, it couldn’t hurt to look. Though for all she knew, Radu’s personal chambers were back there… or his mother’s… they’d been keeping victims _somewhere; _it was entirely possible some new perversion lurked back there. _Well, I haven’t heard any screams, _she thought, infusing her mental tone with a brusqueness she did not feel. Balling her hands into fists, she began to stride purposefully across the hall towards the inner gallery; she had made it almost halfway across when she was startled by the soft rustle of paper.

 

A bolt of pure, superstitious terror lanced through her; she flinched as she turned towards the sound, cringing defensively. “M—“ _Master: _the term sprang unbidden to her lips, and she raised a hand to her throat as if to choke it off; it galled her, even in the extremity of her startlement, but she lacked the emotional stamina to try starting off on an aggressive footing. “M-m-my lord,” she finally managed. Close enough, she hoped; close enough to that hateful term to flatter him—it had probably been his rightful form of address, once upon a time--yet far enough away that it sounded silly to her ears; she could pretend, try desperately to convince herself that she was merely play-acting.

 

Radu sprawled lazily across the rough granite throne that crouched against the wall, one knee thrown casually over a stone arm in a deliberately casual pose. He seemed thoroughly engrossed in the tome that lay open against his thigh, a massive folio bound in wood, leather, and tarnished brass. The scritch of paper against paper had come from him turning a page with slow, meticulous care; he did so again as she watched with startled confusion, raising one hand to his chin with a thoughtful frown.

 

Michelle paused, caught in a web of uncertainty and disappointment. There was no way he could be unaware of her presence, yet he had not so much as raised an eyebrow at her startled address. She watched him carefully as he sat, relaxed and studious, her mouth growing dry with anguish as she contemplated his repose. This, it seemed, was the proverbial insult to injury: the knowledge that he could sit there reading calmly, reading as if he hadn’t a care in the world, in spite of what had happened—of what he’d _done _to her. As if it didn’t matter.

 

Perhaps, to him, it didn’t.

 

She shrank away from that thought, alarmed and thrilled by how much it _angered _her. Not the violence and humiliation he’d inflicted on her; the idea that he found it meaningless, all in a night’s play. That he could dismiss her pain, her subjugation, her submission…

 

Wrong. Sick. Addled.

 

Yet she couldn’t just leave, not now that he had materialized like shadows made flesh, returning from wherever it was he had absented himself these last few twilights. And that sparked another alarming thought: what if he were not absenting himself at all, but merely haunting her as a shade, observing her for some unknowable purpose? Perhaps this was all a test of some sort, one of the bizarre initiation rituals he refused to explain; or perhaps he meant for her to wonder, that he might observe her more easily. But why? She licked her lips; the dustiness of her throat indicated that such academic questions were going to be rendered moot in the near future, and decided to try again.

 

“Radu…”

 

He tucked a strand of loose brown hair behind one ear, but never raised his eyes from the page.

 

She licked her lips again. There was absolutely no question that he was ignoring her deliberately, but she could not fathom a reason for it. The gnawing pangs of hunger combined with the faint embers of rage to allow her confusion and agitation to rise above her fear, allowing for another few moments of almost calm contemplation. She didn’t dare approach him—even if she did, she didn’t think that she could bear to touch him—but she didn’t dare turn her back on him, either. His behavior was deliberately designed to provoke her; perhaps he hoped she would grow so frustrated she would attack him, so he would once more have cause to dominate her physically. Perhaps he hoped she would flee, giving him license to follow her in darkness and learn what activities she set about. Perhaps the throbbing ache of empty thirst was meant as punishment for some incomprehensible slight that he perceived.

 

Exhausted and dazed, Michelle could not fathom a way through this; could not imagine what aims he hoped to accomplish with this performance. But she knew that she could not bring herself to show him her back, figuratively or literally, having already lost too much ground. Caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, she chose the shore: crossing her ankles, she carefully sank to her knees, sitting back on her heels.

 

Radu shifted his weight, unhooking his leg to straighten and set both feet on the floor. He turned another page, his frown deepening.

 

No torches were lit, but the nearly full moon dancing through the window-slits provided more than enough illumination for her newly attenuated eyes to see by; still, she marveled that he could read by such mottled light. Not that they were of a kind, or even necessarily the same order of being—ridiculous as it was, she seemed to conform to a large part of the folklore; he might as well have been a demon for all the similarities he showed—but she had nothing else to compare herself against. Squinting, she was just able to make out the letters stamped on the thick heavy spine, and was even more surprised at their swooping, rounded shapes. It took a moment for the memory to coalesce into knowledge, and she blinked in puzzlement once it did. “The Odyssey?”

 

“You can read it?”

 

She gasped, a startled, reflexive sound; she hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud until he’d made his rejoinder. Radu stared at her levelly over the top of the book, his face a collection of planes and hollows in the faint, uncertain moonlight. “Yes, I… yes.” She shook herself. The memory of a sleepy classroom on a warm summer day, the shy, competent pride in the realization that she was not reciting, but actually _reading _a language that was not only foreign, but disused for thousands of years, seemed utterly incongruous with her current circumstances. “I… it’s been a while.”

 

His mouth quirked in a disdainful smirk, but his fingers beckoned in a graceful gesture of summons. Michelle rose to her feet uncertainly, unwilling to approach, but he waited, hand held out expectantly; slowly and deliberately, hoping to hide her hesitation in measured aplomb, she made herself go to him, halting dutifully at his side. That was not enough for him, however; his raised hand curved gently around her hip, pulling her towards him. 

 

For a moment she thought that would be it: the dry-twig touch of his fingers, the insistent pressure, would finally send her over the edge; but the bright brassy gout of revulsion and panic passed, and she was able to allow him to pull her down. The hard stone seat was almost wide enough for two; she began trembling when the sharp jut of his hip dug into hers, nearly leapt to her feet again when he embraced her loosely. He turned his face to her, and seemed almost about to speak; but he instead merely pointed to the text, a particular section most of the way down the left-hand page. 

 

She was grateful for the task to focus on, an excuse to focus on anything other than the unwanted closeness, the involuntary shaking, the fact that she was practically sitting in the lap of the man—the _thing_—who had… had…

 

Blinking furiously, she forced herself to stare down at the book, to the passage of text indicated by the curved yellow nail. She stared at it hopelessly for a moment, rising despair and despondency wreaking havoc on her concentration; but sooner than she might have hoped she was able to make the transition, the odd mental shift that changed the marks on the page from inscrutable pictograms into flowing, beautiful prose. Peering down to make doubly certain she had the right place, she began to read in a slow, declaratory tone.

 

“When I had prayed sufficiently to the dead, I cut the throats of the two sheep and let the blood run into the trench, whereon the ghosts came trooping up from Erebus- brides, young bachelors, old men worn out with toil, maids who had been crossed in love, and brave men who had been killed in battle, with their armor still smirched with blood; they came from every quarter and flitted round the trench with a strange kind of screaming sound that made me turn pale with fear…” 

 

Curiosity overcoming her discomfort, Michelle looked up to find Radu regarding her with a bemused air. She knew the story well: Odysseus, instructed by a great sorceress, offers a blood sacrifice in exchange for critical information from the ghost of a dead companion; the blood attracted all sorts of spirits, however, and he had been forced to fend them off with the sword of his father. It was no surprise she had never made the connection before, but the implications were staggering: Troy had been found exactly where Homer had said it was located. “Is this… is this _history?”_ she asked disbelievingly. “Is Teiresias…? Are you…?”

 

Radu grinned, an alarming experience from only inches away. “If you do not jest, you flatter,” he rumbled. “I do not think any of us possess such an age. My father, perhaps…” He shook his head. “But the story, ah… perhaps, and mayhap.” He shifted his weight, his arm wrapping more tightly around her waist as he traced the story of the starving ghosts with one yellowed nail. “It may be one of our stories that has made its way into literature. It may even be that Homer once knew one of us who wielded it; for the sword… the sword is real, and we name it the Blade of Laertes in accordance with this tale.” He tapped the page firmly, pointed talon dimpling the rich parchment. “It is a great treasure of our kind, that was stolen long ago. You asked what kills us…”

 

“Like the dagger,” she breathed, recalling the desperate struggle in the crypt.

 

“Something like it,” he agreed solemnly. “Laertes is bane to us all.”

 

Her mind raced at the implication as she tried to pick her words, phrase her thoughts as fear for her safety rather than piqued interest. “The knife was something of your mother’s,” she said quietly. 

 

“So once did the Blade belong to the Vladislas,” he said, “but even her sorcery was no match for that which created the sword. Its wounds are fell to any of us, not merely our line.”

 

The dry, swelling ache of her thirst made it difficult for her to focus, but she seized on the idea. If she understood correctly, the dagger was a weapon meant to kill Vladislas—probably something given him by Circe to enable his father’s assassination—something she had _created._ And now talk of this slaying sword… if one could be made, so could others. “It’s not… not something I understand,” she admitted. “Both of you can do so much…”

 

“I shall be willing to instruct you, should you display the wit and the aptitude,” Radu said softly. “Yet as you are not yet even comfortable with your teeth, well…” He reached up and brushed a stray lock of hair away from her eyes, his regard suddenly softening. “So biddable tonight,” he murmured. “Had I but known, I would have lain with you that first night.”

 

Michelle froze, undone by the sickening turn the conversation had taken; but, as she thought about it, found that she did not mind the idea as much as she might. Thinking back to how innocent and inexperienced she had been those few short weeks ago… had she awoken one night to find such a horrific creature mounting her, she most likely would have simply lost her mind, which would have spared her a great deal of suffering. 

 

Yet it all bore down on her now: the rough unyielding edge of the stone scraped against the backs of her thighs as Radu pulled her closer, pressing her legs against his. His eyes gleamed wetly in the dark hollows of their sockets, and he regarded her earnestly. With his free hand, he shut the heavy tome with a reverberating snap, and casually dropped it over the side of the throne. Michelle flinched in anticipation of the bang of it hitting the flagstones, but instead there was a soft, scrabbling scuttle as one of the subspecies hurried to catch it. _Of course they’re back there, _she thought hysterically, face to face with the monstrous, murderous rapist who was the architect of so much sorrow, _that’s where he threw the head, they’re probably eating it._

 

And that thought, finally, after all she had suffered, proved too much; the barriers were overwhelmed at last and she began to cry, honestly, heartbrokenly, thin, bitter tears wrenching their way out of her to burn aching trails down her face. Radu watched her quietly for a moment, letting her sob hoarsely, choking on her grief and misery. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, heedless of her elbow digging sharply into his ribs, heedless of anything but her own sorrow. 

 

But even that seemingly endless, wracking storm passed; some unknowable time later her shaking eased, the mindless demand of mourning eased its grip on her. It was only then that she felt the knuckles gently stroke her cheek, the breath of his speech cool on her face. “You’re so lovely when you weep,” he whispered reverently. She flinched away from his skeletal touch as his nails delicately found their way down the curve of her jaw, but he grasped her firmly, cupping both of her cheeks. “No,” he told her gruffly, gripping her tightly as she attempted to duck her chin to escape his grasp, _“no.” _All she could do as he slowly drew closer was squeeze her eyes shut tightly and pray that whatever he intended would be over soon.

 

He paused and for a moment, sensing his nearness, she thought he meant to taste her tears, licking the droplets from her cheeks; the soft, feather light touch of his lips against hers was almost more of a shock. She jerked away from the unexpected contact, but he held her tightly, pressing his mouth against hers with gentle insistence. She raised her hands defensively, meaning to flail, to shove him away, but somehow found herself cradling his face, running her thumbs along his sharp cheekbones. His skin was rough under her palms, more reminiscent of hide than skin, but his lips were cool and dry, demanding, but not forceful. His long fingers wound themselves through her hair, gently massaging her scalp, and he sighed as he pulled her closer. Alarmed and bewildered by his sudden attempt at tenderness, she still could not quite bring herself to withdraw from his unwanted attentions. _Not while he’s being so nice… _

 

Michelle shot bolt upright, breaking their kiss and reeling backwards, sickened and dismayed by such a cowardly, low thought. She braced a hand against Radu’s chest, not quite resisting, not quite leaning against him; he held her still, one hand slipping down to knead the back of her neck, but did not press her. “Radu, you… you _hurt_ me,” she gasped by way of explanation. “I… you…”

 

“Shh,” he murmured soothingly, reaching up to smooth her hair back from her brow, as if comforting a frightened child. His claws pricked the soft flesh under her chin as he forced her face upward to meet his gaze, disconcertingly guileless and entreating. He raised his hand to tuck her bangs behind her ears, lingering over the gesture. “I have never sought to cause you undue pain,” he said simply. “You are so young… you cannot yet understand that one night, this will all seem a distant memory of willful foolishness.”

 

And that, she realized, was the true, inescapable hell of it: he _meant _that, every word of it. It was not the first time he had said such things, and indeed, when had he ever acted contrary to them by his own lights? He had laid the lives of his own family, ancient, ageless and rare, at her feet as another man might offer flowers, had offered her those of Mel and her sister the same way; “courting gifts” had been the exact phrase he’d used. Of _course _he saw nothing wrong with their condition, and was genuinely, frustratedly _baffled _by the fact that she did. In his own brutal way, he was trying to do what he thought was best for her: teach her to hunt on her own so that she could feed herself; teach her to cower at his heel, for where else would she be safer? He was simply so fundamentally different, so utterly unable to relate to her needs and way of thinking that it seemed a completely uncrossable gulf. She was sickened by the realization that he was, in fact, quite piteous: he was _trying_, harder than most ever would; but for all of that, he would never, ever understand.

 

He watched her intently, but she turned her head away, aware for the first time that what she took for predatory intensity might simply be an ardent hope for a positive response. After all he’d done, all she’d been through, she couldn’t stand this; hatred, fury, and vengeance were new emotions she was willing to carry in her heart, but she could not abide the thin thread of sympathy that now struggled to take root. “You…” She shook her head slowly, sifting through her memories, grasping at the abuse, the torture, the _vileness. _“That very first night,” she said finally. “You had one of our spears… you were going to kill me.” She caught the slight movement of his hair as he nodded in her peripheral vision; she turned back to him, meeting his gaze forthrightly. _“Why didn’t you?”_

 

He smiled, then, a slight, sad expression, and gently withdrew his hand from her neck. “Because even I can put off fate for only so long,” he replied, the softness of his tone almost denuding the gravelly rasp from his voice.

 

The hopeful resignation in his face was too much to bear; unable to fathom what that statement might mean, unwilling to extend any further sympathy to his monstrous situation, she raised a hand to her face, covering her eyes. “I…” She shook her head briefly, trying to dispel the thick dryness of her throat, the steadily building throb in her temples. “I just…” She shuddered. “I’m so _hungry, _Radu, I can barely think…”

 

“Do you wish me to accompany you out this evening?”

 

_ No. Oh God, no. Not again… never, ever again… _ But even as she thought it, she knew it was merely a futile protestation; he would not share the Bloodstone with her, and there was little else she could do. She knew well what would happen if she denied her hunger for too long, and _that _she truly never meant to repeat. While what had befallen her victim last night was hideously unholy, it was avoidable; he had, to some extent, deserved it. He _had. _She had to believe that. She would find another like him, and she would _finish_ them immediately, no matter how Radu sought to distract her; no matter how tempting that distraction might be, in the heat of the moment. Yes. But the only response she was able to muster was, “Please.”

 

The flesh of his palm was rough as he sought her hand, but his lips were soft and gentle as they brushed the backs of her knuckles. “It would be my honor.”


	5. Chapter 5

The grey November sky seemed swollen, aching with the need to resume its nearly incessant assault upon the poor, unwitting fools trapped beneath it. Rebecca shuddered again and pulled the lapels of her well-worn leather jacket closer in an attempt to ward off the seemingly soul-deep chill that had ridden her bones these three days past, supposing that she ought to be grateful that it had stopped raining for even a brief time. She found Bucharest repellent at the best of times, and was mildly amazed there was something capable of making it even more unpleasant; but the cold, biting drizzle rendered even a simple stroll treacherous, and the pervasive humidity brought with it the reek of sewage.

 

She slowly drew to a halt at the intersection of two narrow avenues, both rendered nearly impassible by the shabby automobiles and rattletrap trucks—one of which appeared, upon closer inspection, to be a cart meant for a horse—that lined each side of the slender lanes. The narrow, crowded avenues flanked by looming high rises reminded her of some of the sketchier areas of New York she had visited, that unspoken, implicit sense of malice and grim disdain; but here there was also an oppressive sense of _other, _of alien menace and implacable, impenetrable inhospitality.

 

Of course, as it had turned out, there were very good reasons for that.

 

Rebecca shoved her hands in her pockets and spun on her heel, striding rapidly back in the direction from which she’d come. The sudden movement jostled the heavy object in her inner pocket, sending a sharp jolt of pain through her hip, but she paid it no heed as she wended her way through the maze-like neighborhood in which she’d found herself. The shadows were lengthening noticeably, and while there was still plenty of time to make the rendezvous, her solo investigations had proved fruitless, and she saw no point to remaining in the area. There were so many more exotic ways to die in this lovely city; falling prey to something so prosaic as a mugger would be such a shame it wasn’t worth risking any more than necessary.

 

She clenched her jaw, balling her hands into fists as she ducked her head into the chill breeze, and wondered if the entire enterprise wasn’t foolish. It had seemed so simple and straightforward in the dusty, dilute sunshine of Dr. Nicolescu’s office. Michelle wanted to return to them. Michelle had _said _she was going to return to them, no matter how specious or necessary her reasons for abandoning them might prove to be. Rebecca and Mel were simply choosing to be a little more proactive about keeping up their end of the deal. Sure, it was a big city, but Michelle had demonstrated her eerie knack for locating Rebecca on several occasions; if nothing else, they had retaken a room at the inn from which she had initially departed, so she would be able to return there and simply wait for them, if it came down to it.

 

That had been before Ana’s halting, hesitant phone call, however; before the call, before the sympathetic, shame-faced translations of the newspaper articles, before Dr. Nicolescu’s solemn, knowing gaze regarding Becky with such frustrated pity.

 

Rebecca swallowed past the hot lump in her throat and redoubled her pace, as if she could leave behind her troublesome, treacherous thoughts as easily as she was departing the ghetto behind her. It _wasn’t _coincidence, couldn’t be; even her unswerving loyalty could not convince her of that, despite her weak protestations that violent crimes plagued any large city, that it didn’t necessarily mean anything. “And even if she _did _do it, she must have had a good reason!” she had cried, startling the three other occupants of the doctor’s office into silence.

 

“Beck…” Mel had responded slowly, rubbing his temples as if warding off a migraine. “Becky… _what _good reason could she have had to… to decapitate three people? In three different places, no less.”

 

“That’s what I want to know,” she had replied, mustering up every reserve of strength she had to keep her voice even. “She’s _not _a murderer, no matter _what _else she might be. We _know _they’re not all monsters,” she said with an abrupt gesture at the doctor, “but that doesn’t mean there aren’t more like… _him.”_ She raked a hand through her close-cropped hair and sagged against the chair, her common sense and unfaltering belief in her little sister warring with shock, disgust, and horror. “What could be so important that she’d take off like this? Maybe she’s killing _them,_ Mel; maybe making sure they can’t hurt anyone else is her way of… making up for what’s happened.” She sighed. “With all due respect, Dr. Nicolescu.”

 

The funereal figure had nodded his acquiescence, seemingly lost in thought for the next few moments. “It is not impossible,” he had said finally, “but if it is so, it changes the situation even more dramatically. A fledgling such as she is in no position to be taking such matters upon herself, no matter how good her heart may be; there will be consequences.”

 

“They’ll come looking for her.” Mel had learned back and folded his arms across his chest.

 

“Among other things, yes. This makes it even more so imperative that she be contacted, and that she be brought into the fold… you will have to take much greater steps to insure that this is accomplished as soon as may be possible…”

 

And so their confused, awkward meeting had quickly resolved itself into a council of war, and plans had been made with gratifying haste. The doctor’s researches into his own mystifying condition had produced many interesting results, and so it was with much better armament than the garlic and holy water of yore that they found themselves prowling the streets of Bucharest, hot on the trail of Michelle herself or the theoretical undead she herself hunted.

 

Rebecca found herself back at the square she and Mel had parted ways from, her reverie having stolen the last few moments of her journey. With a sigh, she forced herself to relax and slow her pace to a more leisurely speed. This square, cobbled and faced with buildings that seemed almost medieval, made all the more incongruous by the neon signs and vinyl banners that adorned them, was some sort of landmark, a one-time monument to The People’s Glorious Something-or-Other; it boasted a postage stamp-sized park dotted with statues at its center, and it seemed as good a place to wait for Mel to reappear as any.

 

She darted her way through traffic, unconcerned with the blaring horns and incomprehensible shouts of aggravated drivers; as far as she had been able to determine traffic, even in the city, operated on the principle of ‘who dares, wins.’ She blended easily enough into the flow of after work pedestrians, deftly skirting her way athwart their paths until she stepped into the comparatively open space of the park with a short sigh of relief. Her muscles ached from the unrelenting damp and chill, and her feet were sore from a fruitless afternoon spent pounding the pavement; she sank down onto one of the delicate wrought-iron benches with no small amount of gratitude—and leapt up immediately with a muffled curse. She had neglected to check the seat for puddles, and the seat of her jeans had quickly soaked through.

 

Despondent, she trudged away, settling for making a weary circuit around the park’s small environs while she waited. It figured, it just _figured_—this whole place was _poisonous, _and it was foolish to expect even the slightest, simplest thing to go right here; not in this post-Communist gulag still plagued by things best relegated to nightmares and fairy tales. Tears stung the backs of her eyes as the true, hopeless enormity of the situation settled one more on her shoulders: what did she truly expect to be able to salvage from this appalling situation?

 

Though it was no fault of her own, Michelle had become a _creature, _something Rebecca herself would have laughed at the idea of until she witnessed its horrifying, unholy implications for herself. Dr. Nicolescu’s theories offered a shining, unlooked-for ray of hope, but even he acknowledged that there was no cure, merely therapy. Even assuming it worked without a hitch, what then? Open up the old cabin in the Poconos, get Michelle a night job, and try to keep her away from the neighbors’ pets? Teach her to eat raw steak, slather on plenty of sunscreen, and hope for the best? It was laughably absurd to think that life would ever be normal again, and they had only barely begun to address the fundamental issues Michelle’s new lifestyle would force them to confront.

 

But what were the alternatives? Abandoning her? Leaving her to make her way in the world as best she might, letting her fall prey to whatever unknowable issues might plague her? Allowing her to succumb to her condition until she became as inhuman as the Vladislas _thing _they had so recently freed her from?

 

Killing her, to prevent such a thing from ever coming to pass?

 

_Never. _Never, in a thousand years; never, while Rebecca still drew breath.

 

“Could be worse; could be raining.”

 

Rebecca gasped, a high shrieky sound, as she whirled and clutched spasmodically at the inside pocket of her jacket; but it was only Mel, his smirk fading into a look of wounded concern as he reached for her. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “You looked so mad, I thought you were tired of waiting for me…”

 

“It’s okay,” she half-sobbed, allowing herself to be pulled into his warm embrace, snuggling against the woolen scarf that encircled his throat. “I just—I’m not used to, um, hearing English any more… I’m so keyed up, you know—“

 

“I know,” he said, kneading her shoulders as best he could through the thick black leather of her jacket. “This is a real tough time.” He released her and held her at arm’s length, his winsome, boyish smile teasing a small answering grin from her. “But you’re holding up like a champ.”

 

“If only,” she sighed, but the knot of tension beneath her ribs eased slightly at his approbation. He took her elbow and steered her forward gently, resuming her aimless circuit of the park. Though she understood intellectually that he was as unprepared to deal with the waking nightmare that they both now found themselves in, his cheerful, unruffled air of competency never failed to reassure her. He had started out attempting to soothe a frightened fellow citizen adrift in a foreign land, and had ended up cajoling an old friend into crossing half the world with the melted remains of an antique silver cross; he had gotten them this far, and she had little doubt he could see them through.

 

If anyone could.

 

“So I take it things didn’t go too well,” Mel said, interrupting the pensive silence that lay between them.

 

“You could say that,” she replied sardonically, brushing her bangs away from her eyes. “I’m not even sure why I agreed to do this. I mean, yes, I know, we have to try everything at this point,” she said, raising her free hand to forestall his objection, “but I can’t even _talk _to these people! I showed her picture around a bit, but as far as I know these people thought I was trying to sell them something.” She shrugged angrily. “I mean, really, what exactly are you supposed to ask? ‘Do you know who committed those gruesome murders? Want to get them in trouble with the cops? How about anyone running around with a bloody neck?’” They continued in silence for half a dozen paces. “How about you?”

 

She felt him shake his head, and couldn’t suppress a small shred of disappointment. Not that she’d really expected anything, but…

 

“Nah,” he said finally, “and I did some digging. It’s not the end of the world.” He suddenly sounded almost as in need of reassurance as she felt, and she couldn’t help but wince at his choice of metaphors. “I suppose getting her packed up while she was still asleep was a little too much to hope for.” He paused, then continued very carefully. “I know we talked about this, but are you _sure _you can’t think of anyplace she might be? Any place she ever mentioned having liked, or wanting to visit?”

 

“No. You know as much as I do.” She knuckled her eyes, willing the irritation to subside. “The museum, the theater, the attic of that club… she might have rented an apartment, for all I know. I’m not even convinced she’s here; she could just as easily be back in Prejnar, or… or some place totally different.”

 

“Yeah.” Mel’s steps slowed to a halt; she turned, half-expecting another confrontation, but his gaze was turned skyward. “That’d be too easy… but it’ll be dark soon enough. Hopefully we can catch up to her while she’s out running her errands.” He looked back at her, his sunny grin restored as if it had never departed. “You still got all your stuff?”

 

The weight in her pocket was omnipresent, but she reached up to pat it just the same. “All present and accounted for.” She shrugged. “As silly as it seems.

 

“Sillier than garlic and wolfsbane?” He clapped her on the shoulder. “At least this stuff’s got some science behind it. And if the doc says it works, well, I guess he’d be in a position to know.”

 

She fingered the slim leather case balanced atop the rectangular object that took up most of the room. “I worry that it’ll work too well…”

 

“Hey, you wanted nonlethal, you got the best we could come up with; it’s not like you can just go down to Sportmart and pick up some tranquilizer darts—“

 

“Not the gun again, Mel—“

 

“—I’m just saying we don’t really know what we’re getting into here, and it wouldn’t hurt to have a little insurance along just in case—“

 

“—you get the opportunity to shoot my sister down like a dog!”

 

Shocked at her own vehemence, Rebecca spun away and buried her face in her hands. It was an unfair accusation and wrong of her to lash out at him like this, but she had had enough of his martial attitude on the subject. It had become clear over the course of their association that Mel possessed hidden depths, and she was growing increasingly frightened of plumbing this particular pool. He’d never been anything but helpful… yet at the same time…

 

“Hey.” His hand fell lightly on her shoulder. “Becky…”

 

“Mel, just—“ She was ashamed to find her voice choked with unshed tears.

 

“No. Hey, no, it’s okay,” he soothed, embracing her from behind; she sagged against him, a few small sniffles escaping despite her best efforts. “We’re both getting a little edgy here, it’s no big deal.” He hugged her tightly, tucking her head beneath his chin. “I _know _you’re scared for Michelle—I am too—but you’ve got to believe I’d never hurt her unless it was absolutely necessary—and even then, I’d probably choke,” he said wryly.

 

“I know,” she said, “I _know,_ but you won’t have to, she’d never ever—“

 

“Hey. Shh.” He laid his cheek against the crown of her head. “You’d better be right, ‘cause all I’ve got is the same stuff you do.”

 

“What?” Rebecca straightened, blinking away her tears as confusing overtook her. “But—but I saw you loading—“

 

“And you asked me not to.” He stroked her cheek. “If you say she’s safe, then I believe you. And if we run into anything else, well… well, I’d be just as happy to run into _anything _at this point, to tell you the truth.”

 

“Oh, Mel.” Not trusting herself to say anything else, she turned in his arms and pulled him down for a kiss. His hands rose to link against the small of her back; they remained like that, both seeking and giving comfort, until Mel gently extricated himself.

 

“It’s getting dark,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “We should go see if the car is still where we left it.”

 

Smiling, she took his hand; buoyed by a moment of simple bliss, all the better for having been snatched from such chaos, they both made their way into the deepening night.

 

* * *

 

Yet as the last of the sickly evening sunlight drained from the sky, so too did their hopes. Pounding the pavement in Mel's company, while more congenial, proved just as fruitless as her earlier solo efforts, and Rebecca soon found herself falling prey to despair. She struggled gamely to master it, knowing that bemoaning their situation would do nothing but depress them both; but as they exited the rental sedan in the last area they suspected Michelle of frequenting, she found her eyes burning with unshed tears. “It's always the last place you look, right?” she said with transparently false cheerfulness.

 

“Needle in a haystack,” Mel replied grimly, reaching up to massage his temples. “But this is a pretty good shot. This is near where we found her that first time, and then last night...” He shrugged.

 

Rebecca glanced around nervously; she didn't recognize the area, but she supposed the looming bulk to their left might be the back of the Bucharest Symphony. She couldn't help but shiver at the memory of that first encounter; after all that frantic searching, Michelle had materialized out of the fog, as mysterious and pale as a ghost, calling her name despondently. Though it had sent a wave of primitive terror through her then, Rebecca could only hope for such an easy resolution this time.

 

They made their way slowly across the brick colonnade, hand in hand, as hesitant and frightened as two children entering the deep, dark woods; neither of them had thought to bring any breadcrumbs. The Symphony building was an imposing cacophony of tortured architecture at the best of times, but now, with the yawning shadows cast by the streetlights drawing closer and closer, its twisted loggia lit only by the faintest of light from within, it seemed even more terrible, the palace of a madman with a taste for ruined gilt. Rebecca sidled closer to Mel as they approached the building itself, made the slight turn to the right that would take them into the access alley, rather than up its broad, muddy steps. She half-expected the wildly carved doors to burst open, to emit some gruesome monster bent on their destruction; but she knew, or at least hoped most devoutly, that it was merely her anxiety and despondence attempting to play tricks on her.

 

Which is what she thought the sight that greeted them in the alley was, for a long, breath-stealing moment. She blinked hard, nearly wrenching her hand free of Mel's to rub her eyes; she hadn't been there a moment ago, she _hadn't._ But poised in the gloom, as elegant beside the dumpster as she might have been in the finest of drawing rooms, stood Michelle, wreathed in darkness and swathed in linen. “Becky, you have to go. Go _now._”

 

“Michelle!” She ran to her sister, grabbing her biceps in a frantic hold; the flesh beneath her palms was icy, unnatural, as hard and cold as carved marble, almost enough to make her flinch away from the contact. “Michelle, I'm so glad you're _okay!_ You have to come back with us, Michelle, we found--”

 

Michelle seized her wrists in a punishing grip, the strength in her delicate hands painful enough to elicit a gasp as she shoved Becky away from her. “Becky, _go._ _Right now._ Becky, he's _still alive—_Radu's _here_­--Becky, you have to _go!”_

 

“_What?”_ The news was more shocking than Michelle's ethereal countenance; Becky's mouth gaped open in horror as she tried to make sense of what she'd just been told. “Michelle, _no! _We saw him burn, okay? We _saw_ it. I know you're confused right now, but you've got to listen to me--”

 

“Get _out _of here!” The next shove sent her spinning around and nearly stumbling to her knees; shocked and hurt, Becky could scarcely comprehend what had just happened. She sensed Mel moving past her and struggled upright, anxious to prevent whatever confrontation might be about to take place, but he had merely placed himself between the two women, his hands upraised in a placatory gesture.

 

“Michelle, we found a doctor. He's like you.” Mel's voice was calm and soothing, as if he were reassuring a frightened child. “He has the same problem you do, and he says he can help you, Michelle. He thinks he can _cure_ you. If you come back with us, we can take you to see him; we can--”

 

“Oh, you _idiots!”_ Michelle screamed, bowing with the force of her cry, her fingers contorted into grasping claws. Becky unconsciously laid a hand on Mel's arm, preparing to drag him away, but Michelle simply let her head droop, her arms falling limply to her sides. “Why couldn't you have listened to me?” The rank, gnawing despair in her voice was enough to send a chill down Becky's spine.

 

But it was not merely the evidence of her sister's dementia that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. The breeze was picking up once more, sending dry, dead leaves scuttling around her boots... but it couldn't be; shielded by the building as they were, there was no way for the wind to be blowing against her face. A nauseating, sickening dread began to uncoil within her belly as she raised her head, straightening, to peer down the alley, already knowing, impossible as it was, what she was going to find. _She tried to warn us,_ she thought helplessly, _oh, God, she tried to _tell _us..._

 

Cadaverous, impossibly, inhumanly stretched, a lone figure stood at the opposite mouth of the alley. Its arms were folded and it leaned against the side of the Symphony building, watching their interactions as if they were merely a bit of street performance unfolding before it. It was too dim to make out details, but there was no mistaking what lurked, waiting for them to play out there drama. “No,” she whispered, unable to make her mind function beyond the bounds of pure, implacable _rejection._ She retreated a few steps, raising her hands in a helpless attempt to ward it off. “No...”

 

The blinding flash of light was a shock, illuminating the alley as if a bolt of lightning has touched down among them, but the terrified leap of her heart was nothing compared to the agonized, gut-wrenching scream of her sister, the guttural, bestial snarl from further beyond them. Michelle fell to her knees, filthy water splashing around her, arms wrapped around her head and keening as if she'd been slain. Mel charged past her, the camera flash already falling from his hand as he reached into his jacket for something else. “Becky, come _on!_” he shouted over his shoulder.

 

She was paralyzed for another heartbeat; but the realization of what they now faced galvanized Rebecca into action. She fumbled in her pocket for her own flash, one of the only things that really worked, according to Dr. Nicolescu, but there was no attack from the monster that had come upon them, and Michelle wailed so piteously Rebecca could not bring herself to inflict further pain upon her. She went instead for the zippered leather case, nearly dropping it in her haste as she sank to her knees beside her sister. “Michelle, I'm so sorry, but you've gotta trust me on this one,” she gasped as she wrenched the case open. The needle was already affixed to the syringe, its metal gleaming dully in the uncertain light. The dark substance within slopped against the sides, seeming almost too viscous to pass through the slender tip, but Nicolescu had assured them again that it was the only way. There seemed to be no way to get Michelle to uncurl from her fetal crouch, certainly no way to get her to accede to this, so Rebecca merely took her wrist and tried to peer at the inside of her arm; she'd have to stick it in and hope she hit a vein.

 

“You'll see, Shelly,” she breathed, so distraught she did not realize she had reverted to the old childhood nickname, unspoken for years. “This is going to work out. We're all going to be okay.” She continued on with a litany of similar sentiments, as much to reassure herself as her sister, as she peered at the inside of Michelle's arm, trying to pick the best spot to plunge the needle home. She had chosen a shadow in the crook of her arm that might had been a vein and had raised the needle to strike when the flat, echoing crack of a gunshot startled her into losing her balance. _“Becky!”_

 

_He lied!_ she thought disconsolately, but the absurdity of the situation struck her and, horribly, it was suddenly all she could do not to laugh. Mel fired again, and Rebecca knew there was no more time to waste; she seized Michelle by the wrist and stabbed the needle into her elbow, depressing the plunger with savage force as a barrage of shots filled the alley with thunder.

 

 

It would have been easier had Michelle screamed; had she writhed and thrashed, responding only to the pain and perceived betrayal of the injection. The strangled gagging that issued from her throat was a thousand times worse; the sudden, icy stiffness of her body was revolting. This was not the incoherent descent into insensibility Rebecca had expected of the tranquilizer; it was as if Michelle had been switched off. Rebecca laid her fingers against her sister's throat out of sheer instinct, feeling for a pulse she knew would not be there.

 

“Becky! _Becky!_ Have you got her?” Mel's hand clapped her hard on the shoulder as he skidded into a crouch beside her, leaning over her to peer at Michelle.

 

“I—I think so—I mean--” Even the rasping cough had ceased; Michelle lay across her lap like a statue, utterly still. “I don't think this was supposed to--”

 

“The doc can deal with it,” Mel cut her off. Shoving his arms beneath her knees and shoulders, he hoisted Michelle up and gathered her as close to his chest as her resistant form would permit. “Becky, come on, _right now._” Without waiting for a response, he set off down the alley at a fast jog. Rebecca glanced behind them, but could see nothing out of the ordinary, not even the crumpled form of their apparently vanquished foe. Mel must have done _something_, but there was no sense in hanging around to find out what it might have been. Scrambling to her feet, she hurried after them as quickly as the slippery cobblestones would permit.

 

The pavement beneath her feet was a welcome relief, allowing her to pound her way down the boulevard in pursuit. She caught sight of Mel almost a block ahead of her, and wrenched a little more speed from her aching body. He bulled his way through the early evening crowd, heedless of the puzzled, frightened expressions of the pedestrians he knocked aside. Knowing the response a running man carrying an unconscious woman would have provoked back home, Rebecca urged herself to even greater exertions, and tried not to think of what would happen if they were unlucky enough to encounter a police officer.

 

Mel darted around a corner, and she realized with sudden panicked dread that she hadn't the faintest idea where the car was parked; she could not imagine what might befall her if she lost sight of him in the narrow streets. But in the evening's first bit of decent luck, she caught sight of him as she rounded the building, setting Michelle down on the trunk of the yellow rental.

 

She slid to a halt beside him, bending over to brace her hands against her thighs as she wheezed for breath. Mel wrenched open the rear door and unceremoniously wedged Michelle into the backseat, bending her legs to allow him to slam the door closed. “In, Becky, _now.”_ Heaving herself upright, she stumbled around the car to hop into the passenger side that Mel had already leaned over to open for her; she barely had time to shut the door before he peeled away from the curb as quickly as the little car could.

 

Rebecca sagged back against the seat, too disoriented by the speed with which events had progressed to so much as grope for the seatbelt. Mel wove the car deftly through the haphazard traffic, eliciting shouts and a chorus of horns. “Mel, what _happened?”_ she asked plaintively.

 

“Silver bullets.” His eyes flicked briefly from the road, his expression guarded as if in anticipation of a rebuke. “From before,” he added, when it became clear that Rebecca was not inclined to give it. “I don't know. I don't know if I stopped it. We need to get to the clinic _now._”

 

The tires squealed as the car hurtled around a intersection. Rebecca levered herself to her knees, bracing her arms against the headrest to peer at her sister. Michelle's long, dark hair obscured her face, hiding any expression that might have lurked there, but she remained as still as the grave. Yet her arms were bent at the elbows, her posture seemed a touch more natural; was that a result of Mel's efforts, or a sign that the tranquilizer was wearing off? Rebecca bit her lip, hoping that she had not murdered her sister; hoping that a frightened, drug-addled vampire would not be as gruesome an opponent as she feared.

 

“Hang on!”

 

Rebecca's teeth clicked together with an excruciating jolt of pain as she was thrown backwards, the dashboard barking the small of her back as the car ground to a halt with a shuddering howl. “Becky, are you okay? Becky, come _on!”_

 

“I'm fine,” she gasped. Grabbing the armrest, she managed to lever herself upright and untangle her legs. Mel was already out of the car, throwing open the door to allow him to wrestle Michelle out. Galvanized into action, Rebecca opened her own door and hurled herself out. The tall, wrought-iron gates of the Vitalis Institute were the most beautiful thing she had seen in days; she ran toward them, and nearly shouted in dismay when she realized that they were locked. “Hey!” she cried, pounding her fists against the bars hard enough to make them rattle. _“Hey! _We're out here! Let us _in!”_

 

 

 

She thought she saw someone move in one of the windows, but was distracted as Mel drew up beside her. He struggled to keep his grip on Michelle as she flexed her legs against his arms. Rebecca slammed her palms against the gate in a rough cacophony of iron. “Hey! _Hey! _Come _on!”_

 

_There._ The heavy double doors at the opposite end of the flagged courtyard flew open, disgorging the long-haired young orderly they'd met on their last visit at a dead run. He skidded to a halt on the slate steps, turning back to the building for a moment as if waiting for an instruction, before whirling and rushing across the courtyard to them.

 

Rebecca was already babbling an effusive stream of thanks as he reached them, wrapping her hands around the bars as he bent to claw at their closure. She heard more footsteps that were quickly drowned out by the protesting scream of metal as he hauled the gates back to grant them entrance; but even as she hurried past him, she was struck by the sick, tormented look upon his face.

 

“_No! _ Do not do this thing!” Her head whipped around at the hoarse, panicked shout, but she could not immediately identify its source. Mel hoisted Michelle a little higher in his arms and shouldered his way past her; then, in the space of time it took Rebecca to turn her gaze back, all hell broke loose.

 

Michelle _howled,_ a guttural, grotesque cry that melded inhumanly with the orderly's thin, tortured shriek as she flopped and writhed upon the cobblestones. Mel was supporting his weight against one of the gates, free hand covering the side of his face, but there was no mistaking the blood that already leaked from between his fingers. Dr. Nicolescu was running across the courtyard, arms flapping absurdly as he came; once he drew close enough, he kicked Michelle savagely in the ribs, sending her rolling across the cobbles, and both screams were abruptly silenced.

 

“_What?” _Rebecca rounded on him, her hands raised, not sure what she intended to do; the doctor's clammy, feverish grip clamping down on her wrists forestalled her ability to decide for a heart-stopping moment.

 

“_Wait!”_ he cried, raising a hand to Mel as he staggered to his feet. “This is holy ground! _Understand me! _She cannot come uninvited!” He loosened his grip on her wrists, his gaze flicking nervously between her and Mel once before he released her and strode to Michelle's side. “A veni!” he called sharply; dazed, Rebecca stepped aside as two more men in white wheeled a gurney past her.

 

Nicolescu knelt beside Michelle, speaking into her ear, rising with her as the men carefully lifted her onto the gurney. “Please, be welcome into my home, and enjoy the benevolence of my protection for so long as you remain.” The orderlies settled her on the gurney and began fastening her down with thick, leather straps; the doctor peered into her face intently, then nodded. “A lua ei înăuntru. A face ceva cu pe el.”

 

Rebecca's stomach twisted with apprehension as the orderlies wheeled Michelle across the boundary, but it now provoked no more response than the rest of the journey had. Once they had crossed, one of them released the gurney and turned to attend to his stricken coworker. The sigh Rebecca released was half a sob as she turned to Nicolescu. “Doctor, what--”

 

He held up a hand, brushing his lank hair away from his sweaty forehead. “Please. This was never intended to happen, but you must understand this is not a situation for which we are practiced. I apologize, but we must see to your sister now.” He clicked his heels together and inclined his head to Mel. “We will see to your face presently; you need fear no infection.” So saying, he spun on his heel and followed the gurney.

 

Rebecca had to trot to catch up with him. “I—I understand, but... Doctor, that wasn't like any drug I've ever--”

 

“Not drug.” Mel drew alongside them as they climbed the steps. “Only blood._ Spoiled _blood. She is young enough that the system is delicate enough... she has shut down, to deal with the... the invasion. It is unpleasant, but it is the only sure thing; and as you see, it already passes.”

 

“We _poisoned_ her?”

 

“Would you rather silver chains and the blessed host?” Nicolescu snapped; then, catching himself, he shot her an apologetic glance. “I am sorry. But this is not a precise science. We needed her here. Now she is, and she will be well.”

 

Rather than directing them down the long, cluttered hallways they had followed on the initial visit, he pushed through another set of doors behind the reception desk, leading them into what must have been the operating theater. Michelle was already ensconced beneath a strange, orangeish light, still strapped to her gurney, surrounded by a bevy of machines Rebecca was hard-pressed to identify. Doctor Lazar bent over her, attaching something to her wrist with a frown of concentration; she looked up at the sound of their entrance and flashed a reassuring smile before returning to her work.

 

“Doctor, you said this was holy ground,” Mel said urgently.

 

“Yes. An unfortunate reac--”

 

“That's proof against _any _vampire?”

 

The doctor turned to him, an annoyed look on his face. “Yes, of course—ah.” He reached up to adjust his sunglasses with a closemouthed grin. “Solicitors are so very handy in some respects. But this is now my domain; none may enter without permission.”

 

“Are you _sure?”_

 

Nicolescu lifted his hand in a vague gesture towards Michelle. “You know what befell her.”

 

Mel exhaled between clenched teeth. “Radu Vladislas is alive. We ran from him to get here.”

 

The doctor froze, his expression unreadable. “You are very certain of this,” he said. It wasn't a question.

 

“Completely,” Rebecca said. “We both saw him. There's no mistaking him.”

 

“How did you escape?”

 

“Silver bullets,” Mel replied.

 

“Did you sever his head?”

 

“No. Body shots. It stopped him, but...”

 

“But, yes.” Nicolescu's lips pursed in thought. “This is not an insignificant problem. Nevertheless, you will be well and safe here.We will address this as we may.”

 

“Then what now, doctor?”

 

Mel's question was brusque to the point of rudeness, but once she took a good look at him, Rebecca could empathize with his unhappiness. The right side of his face was divided by four vicious weals, the middle pair only barely missing his eye; blood streamed freely from each of them. “Oh, _Mel!”_ She reached out to him, meaning to help him somehow, but he merely took her hand and pulled her close.

 

“In all likelihood, now we will wait.” Nicolescu turned to the ranks of equipment Ana was busily hooking up to Michelle, bending over to examine a few display screens; Rebecca's stomach gave a queasy flip as she realized two of them were a heart monitor and a respirator, each of them showing a perfect flat line. “She is exactly as I expected her to be now... but there are some things I have been unable to devise tests for, and that she must tell me herself.”

 

 

Rebecca was bitterly disappointed to hear it, but could not bring herself to attempt to dispute it; she could no longer even pretend that she understood more than a fraction of what was going on. “Do you have any idea when she'll come to?”

 

“Perhaps an hour. Perhaps three. No more than that; as you have seen, she is stirring already. She is very strong,” the doctor added in a strange tone; Rebecca could not tell if her were impressed or perturbed. “The straps are merely in case of incidents such as we have already had... and which should be seen to.” He turned to Mel, gesturing to the door. “If you will come with me, please?”

 

Torn between concern for Mel's injuries and the desire to stay at her sister's side, Rebecca cast a longing glance over her should at Michelle. She lay as still as a corpse; Dr. Lazar might have been preparing for an autopsy, rather than whatever arcane procedure was meant to be carried out. There did not seem to be anything she could do here but serve as an impediment to Ana; reasoning that the least she could do for Mel was provide moral support, she turned and followed them.

 

They remained silent as they made their way down the crowded corridor, the shrouded shapes lining its sides even more ominous in the faint moonlight. Though they passed what Rebecca was fairly certain were the light switches as they entered the hall, Nicolescu ignored them, leading them to his office in the dark.

 

“On the desk, please,” he said to Mel as he shut the door behind them. To Rebecca's immense gratitude, he turned on a small lamp beside the door; even its diffuse light was a comfort. Mel settled himself on the edge of the desk with no indication of either relief or apprehension, though he watched carefully as the doctor removed a battered leather case from one of the desk drawers.

 

“If you will excuse me, I see better this way.” Nicolescu removed his sunglasses, folding them and tucking them into a breast pocket as he bent over to examine Mel's face. Rebecca could not see what the dark lenses had hidden, but she felt as thin shiver of unease as she saw Mel blink sharply, not quite flinching. “Hmm,” Nicolescu muttered. “These will be fine, I think, except perhaps for this one; you will wish this to be sewn, if you wish to remain so good-looking.” He glanced over his shoulder at Rebecca, his face hidden in shadow. “Though some may find such a mark charming.”

 

“How many stitches?” Mel asked.

 

“Six. Eight.” The doctor see-sawed his hand in a gesture of uncertainty. “And another four, perhaps, on the temple. I can give you an injection, if you wish.”

 

“No. Just... is it that bad?” he asked, turning to Rebecca. She could barely make out the details in the dim light, and was glad the darkness hid them from her; there was no mistaking the ragged edge of torn flesh.

 

“It's... pretty bad, Mel,” she finally managed.

 

“Then just do it.” He shook his head. “I guess I've had worse.”

 

“I am so sorry to hear it,” Nicolescu said unctuously as he unsnapped his bag. “Ms. Morgan, if you perhaps do not care to see this, you are welcome to go and sit with Michelle, if you like.”

 

“I...” She looked at Mel imploringly, suddenly uncertain whether or not she could bear the sight of a needle passing through bloody skin. “If you want me to stay...”

 

“Nah. I'm a big boy.” He shot her what was probably meant to be a reassuring grin, but the effect was somewhat spoiled by the way he winced as Nicolescu gently touched a gauze pad to his cheek. “We'll catch up with you in a bit.”

 

“You recall the way?” Nicolescu's voice was distant, his attention focused elsewhere.

 

“I think I can manage.” She rose to her feet and, with one last concerned look at Mel, let herself out of the office and hurried back down the hall. Tried to, anyway; she was startled to realize just how badly her legs were shaking, tension and adrenalin finally taking their toll. She rested a hand lightly against one of the shrouded shapes to regain her balance, then set off again at a more manageable pace.

  


She hugged herself, chafing her biceps as she picked her way down the corridor, trying to calm herself and think rationally. It sounded ridiculous, like children hiding on goal in a game of hide and seek, but Nicolescu had seemed utterly confident that they would be safe so long as they remained here. Having seen Michelle's violent reaction to being carried across the threshold, Rebecca was not terribly inclined to doubt him. Holy ground... she shook her head, unwilling to consider the implications of that.

  


Reentering the foyer, she made her way around the reception desk and pushed open the double doors that led to the examining room. For a moment, she thought she had somehow made a mistake and entered the wrong room by accident, but logic told her there was no way she could have done so: there was only the one set of doors, right behind the desk. Yet while the medical equipment still hummed quietly to itself, there was no sign of Michelle or Dr. Lazar.

  


She stood, dumbstruck, quickly examining the room—could there have been _another_ door they had gone through that she hadn't recalled? But the heart monitor was right _there_, and the tray of instruments, and--

  


“Miss.”

  


Rebecca nearly screamed at the sound of the voice behind her, whirling around violently and clasping a hand to her chest. The long-haired orderly stood before her wearing an expression of muted puzzlement, seeming much recovered from his earlier condition. “I—I'm sorry—you scared me--”

  


He had no reply to that, and continued to regard her mutely. The blank placidity on his face suddenly irritated her; he'd been quick enough to react to Michelle's... incident. “My sister was here. Michelle Morgan. Where is she? Where has she gone?” He still failed to respond. “Where is Dr. Lazar?”

  


He pursed his lips, seeming to ponder this. “Miss come please,” he finally offered, and Rebecca realized with frustrated chagrin that he hadn't understood a word she'd said. She ran her fingers through her short hair; Dr. Lazar had probably sent him to fetch her and instructed him on what to parrot. She sighed, and offered him the best smile she could muster, under the circumstances; after all she'd been through this evening, finally losing her temper over a simple language barrier seemed absurd.

  


“Sure,” she responded; knowing that it did no good, she smiled again and pointed to the door. He turned without further acknowledgment, but held the door for her as they exited; silently, she followed him back the way she'd come.

  


It made sense, really; the portholed doors that lined the halls were undoubtedly patient rooms—or had been, at some point—and there was really no need to keep Michelle in the main room if they were simply waiting for her to regain consciousness. It wasn't as if patients in normal hospitals stayed in the emergency room any longer than necessary, and given the unusual circumstances of this patient... though she was sure Dr. Nicolescu had some measures in place for dealing with unexpected company, she could not imagine what the authorities would think of finding what appeared to be a corpse undergoing treatment.

  


The orderly finally stopped at a door near the end of the main corridor, which he opened with a brief struggle. The door swung inward, but he kept his hand on the knob; she would have to sidle past him if she wished to enter. Gingerly, Rebecca eased her way through the doorway, uncertain of what she would find, but hoping for Dr. Lazar and a cheerful explanation.

  


Michelle lay before her, but there was no sign of the gurney to which she had been strapped. She sprawled on the floor, crumpled, her limbs akimbo and looking like nothing so much as a broken doll. Rebecca's fingers flew to her mouth in horror, unable to accept what she was seeing for a moment; surely there must be some mistake. But Michelle had not simply rolled out of bed and been unable to rise; the room was bare cement without a stick of furniture, its high, small window rendered nearly impenetrable by wire mesh.

  


“What--”

  


Whatever protest she might have thought to make was cut off by the rough shove between her shoulder blades that sent her stumbling forward, scraping the palms of her hands painfully on the floor as she broke her fall.

  


“_Wait!” _she cried desperately as she tried to scramble upright, some tiny, disbelieving part of her brain still shrieking that this was all some kind of misunderstanding; but the heavy clang of the steel door slamming shut brooked no argument.


	6. Chapter 6

He tried to tell himself that it was just prejudice. Racism, even. A doctor was a doctor, and Nicolescu had gone far out of his way to help them out of a bad spot; he was just doing his job, same as anyone else.

 

Yet Mel still couldn't quite reconcile himself to the fact that he was allowing an undead bloodsucker to fool around with the cuts on his face.

 

The stitches themselves weren't too bad; not something he'd ever do for fun, but he could cope. He almost relished the sharp, nagging discomfort of each prick, the queer and somehow _slithery _feel of the thread passing through the puncture wounds. They distracted him from the flagrant, unnatural _inhumanity_ of the doctor's eyes: the scleras were a deep, muddy maroon surrounding flat, dull chips of black. He couldn't quite tell under the dim light, but Mel was pretty certain they were slightly shriveled, too, slightly too small, and set in Nicolescu's face like moldy prunes.

 

But while the request waited on the tip of his tongue, Mel couldn't bring himself to ask the doctor to put his glasses back on. He obviously knew it was unnerving, and tried his best; and as stomach-turning as it was, Mel didn't really want to make things any more difficult on the man wielding a needle on his face. So he did his best to let his gaze unfocus, and waited for it to be over.

 

"She did not do this on purpose, you do realize," Nicolescu said conversationally, startling him from his reverie; he hadn't wanted to distract the doctor, so had not bothered to attempt small talk. “It was simply reflex. She meant no ill."

 

"I figured." He waited for the needle to finish its pass. “It's still a mess, though."

 

"Ah, yes. But nails are only nails, like your own. Bad, yes, but only scratches. Nothing to truly fear." Nicolescu stood back, examined his work, and pinched off the thread.

 

Realizing that this was probably one of the best opportunities to gather intelligence he was ever going to get, Mel decided to press on, as the doctor prepared another needle. “So it isn't rampantly contagious? The... condition, I mean."

 

"Eh. Virulent, yes, but very specific, too." He stooped down before Mel once again. “Turn this way, please." Frowning, he returned to the supplies he had set out on his desk. He raised a hand to his face, tapping a finger against his chin, before bending down to select a smaller needle. The hairs on the back of Mel's neck bristled, but he made himself hold still; it must have been a trick of the light. He couldn't have just seen Nicolescu daintily lick blood from his thumb.

 

"We have a venom, you might call it. It does what it was meant to do, but only that way," the doctor continued as if nothing unusual had taken place; he had to be imagining thing. “If I spit on these cuts, perhaps you would have a problem to deal with; otherwise it is only biting. Now, hold still, please. This first one will be a little tricky."

 

Mel obliged, bracing himself, but was unprepared for the rush of primordial dread that the needle piercing the flesh at the corner of his eye brought; for the skin-crawling sensation of his skin being tugged against his nose as the doctor pulled the needle through. “There! That one was bad, the face nerves are in strange places. Others will be like before."

 

He exhaled the shuddering breath he'd been holding, and tried to force himself to relax. “So, you really think this place will keep Radu out?"

 

"I am betting everything upon it," Nicolescu replied calmly, sizing up the next stitch. “None of us can overcome that prohibition, none; if he had learned how to do so, well... we are in much worse trouble than I am equipped to deal with. So don't worry."

 

Nowhere near as reassured as the doctor had intended, Mel was glad of the comforting weight of the pistol tucked into the back of his waistband; it might not kill the bastard, but it might buy them enough time to escape again. “Does he know where this place is? Do you know him?"

 

"No, no. I am only a little vampire, and I have kept very low to the ground." Mel was unsure if Nicolescu had finished speaking or was merely concentrating until he continued. “But you have hurt him and taken his fledgling; there is nothing that will stop him, and, once Michelle awakens, he will know."

 

"Are they... I mean, are you... _psychic_ or something?"

 

"Not as you think, perhaps, but... she is his child, likely his beloved. She will be very hungry when she arises, and though that has been taken care of, he will know of her distress." Nicolescu tied off the last stitch, breaking the thread once again. “I am expecting him at any time."

 

Mel reached up to his face, fingers instinctively seeking the wounds, but he forced himself to lower his hand. “Doctor, forgive me for being blunt, but what exactly are you planning to do—tell him to go away?"

 

"Ah." Nicolescu reached into his breast pocket for his glasses. Unfolding them, he settled them once more upon his nose, before turning to regard Mel with a wide, toothy grin. “I was thinking to perhaps give him Michelle, in exchange for the Bloodstone."

 

* * *

 

"God _damn _it!" Rebecca slammed her fists against the door once more, for what little good it did her. Pounding and shouting had left her with nothing but sore hands and a raw throat, but it had disabused her of any lingering, hopeful notions that help was on its way. She slumped into the corner, sliding her back down the wall until she met the floor with a thud. Bracing her elbows on her knees, she buried her face in her hands, and did her best not to cry.

 

They were stupid, stupid,  _stupid_ to have  _ever _ trusted Nicolescu. It had all been so perfect; calm answers to all of their questions, soothing confidence as a balm for their weary confusion, with friendly, understanding Ana working as a Judas goat. But like anything else that seemed too good to be true, the Vitalis Institute had proven itself a seductive trap, and God only knew what price they were going to have to win free. She sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm down, trying to  _think_ , for the first time since they'd agreed to Nicolescu's mad plan.

 

As painful as it was to admit, if Nicolescu's stories about his research were true, desiring Michelle made sense; a young, relatively defenseless vampire would make an excellent lab monkey, and she and Mel had been so desperate for help that they'd delivered her to him on a silver platter. But what now? He couldn't simply let them go, not with everything they knew. Was he going to dispose of them? Keep them like cattle? Turn them into further test subjects?

 

What on Earth could be happening to Mel?

 

_Idiots._ But it had seemed like such a good idea at the time... trusting one of those vicious, miserable  _creatures,_ simply because it had put on a show of sympathy.

 

A creature like Michelle. Shivering from tension and cold, Rebecca slowly raised her face from her hands, and turned to regard her sister.

 

Rebecca had rolled her onto her back, arranging her arms and legs as closely to comfortable as she could easily manage; though Michelle had lost that unnatural, rigor mortis stiffness the injection had given her, her limbs were still far from flexible, and bile rose in the back of Rebecca's throat at prolonged contact. It had been easy enough to rationalize it, when Michelle had been away; simply a medical condition, no more worthy of scorn or revulsion than cancer or diabetes. Even seeing her up and moving around, talking to them... there was no mistaking the otherness about her, but it was still Michelle, still her  _sister._ Yet now, confronted with a cold corpse... now, knowing what she knew... Rebecca looked at her sister and was frightened; was terrified, and hated herself for it.

 

_Shelly._ The thought alone was nearly enough to undo her; lip quivering, she had to hide her face against her arms to keep from bursting into tears. She'd always done her best to protect Michelle, always tried her hardest, and now, when Michelle had needed her the most, she had failed  _spectacularly._ She'd meant to help, meant to get her cured, meant to solve everything... and had instead delivered them all into the hands of an unknown enemy.

 

The soft rustle of fabric sent her bolt upright; but as hard as she stared at Michelle's supine form, she could detect no movement. Still, the noise had come from  _somewhere,_ and it wasn't as if there was a breeze; she must have moved, even if only slightly, and the realization sent a sudden wild surge of hope through Rebecca. Michelle wasn't... wasn't just Michelle any more. Her mind balked at recalling vampire legends, having seen some of them proven untrue, but surely they had to have some basis in reality. She had seen Michelle do... that  _thing, _ where she  _moved._ Perhaps she could do that through walls, or out the window; let Rebecca out, or at least go get help...  _something._

 

As long as she awoke in time.

 

She let her gaze wander back to the door, and resisted the urge to kick it; it would only hurt her foot. There was a handle on this side, a rough-edged metal lever set into a slight depression, but it might as well have been welded in place for all the good yanking on it had done. The door itself was set flush in its frame, and though a bit of the rubber facings had dried and flaked away, the cracks were so thin Rebecca could not even tell if it were light or dark in the hallway. She could not even fathom how to attempt disassembling the hinges; they were obviously affixed _somehow_, and all of her twisting and pulling had been for naught. She had not bothered with the window; even if she had been able to reach high enough to do more than brush it with her fingers, the mesh blocking it was firmly bolted into the concrete, and she was not entirely certain she'd be able to wedge her shoulders through the narrow aperture.

 

No, this place had been designed to keep people in, and it did its job well. The concrete was old, cracked and water-stained; she wonder if Nicolescu had built them as holding cells, or if this was merely the Communist idea of a padded room.

 

A wheezing, shuddering breath prevented further contemplation in that direction. Elated, Rebecca scurried over to Michelle as she rolled slowly onto her side. She reached out to her sister, but her hand froze in mid-air, suddenly, perilously uncertain of her reception.

 

Michelle lay still for a moment, then began to draw her limbs up, curling cautiously into a taut fetal position. Her fingers found their way to her mouth, and Rebecca's heart was torn by the bizarrely innocent poignance of the image; Michelle had slept that way often enough, when she was only a little girl, and it was both touching and devastating to see her revert to it in these straits. But the rush of love and empathy soured quickly when she saw Michelle's jaw work, her pale pink tongue dart past her lips.

 

She was licking Mel's blood from beneath her finger nails.

 

* * *

 

"You have _got _to be kidding me."

 

"Well, perhaps my reach does exceed my grasp," Nicolescu acceded, his voice dripping with exaggerated sincerity, raising a hand to his chest in mock humility. “But what even a few _drops _could do for my researches... ah, I think it is worth the gamble."

 

Mel suspected that he had finally, after all the insanity of the past few weeks, reached his breaking point; his primary reaction to the vampire's revelation was an urge to laugh hysterically. Bad enough that they had been played like a bunch of suckers, but to have the whole scheme explained to him like a bad Bond movie? The hubris was unreal. He shifted his weight forward, ready to leap to his feet. “You're thinking I'm just going to go along with this?"

 

The doctor shrugged. “You seem to me a practical man; I think you can acknowledge that this would remove many difficulties from your path, and your cooperation would not come amiss." He smiled again. “But if you do not... well, it is not as if you have many options, is it?" His hand clamped down on Mel's wrist with bruising force, the promise of more to come unspoken, but unmistakable.

 

_Sloppy_ , was all Mel could think as he drew his gun, shoved the barrel beneath Nicolescu's chin, and pulled the trigger twice.

 

The thunder of the shots was almost enough to drown out the wet, groaning crunch as the doctor's hand flexed convulsively against his wrist, pulverizing the bones beneath. Mel wrenched free with a blinding wash of agony that painted the world white for a moment; gritting his teeth, he staggered to his feet and lunged for the door. He didn't think there was  _anything _ that could survive a pair of point-blank head shots, but if there was, he didn't want to find out just how angry it was going to be when it got back up. 

 

Yanking the door open with the injured hand was awkward, but he wasn't about to surrender the gun for a second. Stumbling out into the hall, he looked around quickly. There was no way the shots had gone unnoticed and, indeed, he already heard hurrying foot steps, punctuated by confused yells, echoing from somewhere deeper in the building. He was going to move fast if he were going to find Michelle and Rebecca in time... if Rebecca was still around to be found.

 

Forcing the thought from his mind, he trotted down the hallway despite every bit of reason and instinct he possessed  _screaming _ at him to run for the main doors, get  _out _ of this godforsaken place. But though the odds were slim—he had no idea what they might have done with the Morgans, had only the vaguest idea of what the actual layout of the place was—he had to  _try_ . Even setting aside his feelings for Rebecca, they'd come too far together for him to slink off in search of help. The boys weren't going to believe this until they saw it, and the sisters' time was too precious to waste.

 

He crept forward as quickly and silently as he could. It was hard to judge sounds in this thick-walled, twisting place, but it sounded like the cavalry was getting closer, and while seeing to their master would occupy them for a few moments, they'd be hot on Mel's heels moments afterwards.

 

He ducked around the corner, back into the main corridor, and wished to God he's taken a second to check it before exposing himself. The long-haired orderly stood guarding the door at the end of the hall; before Mel had time to react it bared its fangs in a vicious, bestial snarl and charged him.

 

Mel knew there was no hope of avoiding it, so he attempted to brace himself to roll with it; but the sheer force of the thing's rush knocked the wind and the wit from him, and they both crashed against the wall in a tangle of struggling limbs. Mel kicked out savagely, raking its shins with his heels, but it took no notice of what should have been agonizing pain, instead snapping wildly at his throat. Mel tried to get his bad arm up in between them, but the sickening pain overwhelmed him. The creature seized the opportunity to wrap fingers like iron bands around his throat, hoist his feet from the ground, and slam him into the wall.

 

The boards splintered with a tinkling crash and Mel tumbled backwards, realizing, as the glass shards rained down upon him in a storm of tiny cuts, that it had in fact been a boarded up window. He landed on the damp grass with a bone-jarring thud, and scrambled to his hands and knees, the pistol's butt cutting cruelly into his abused palm, just as the orderly appeared in the shattered remnants of the window. Mel rose to one knee, forced himself into the best approximation of a teacup grip he could manage, and shot it in the knee.

 

The vampire howled, clutching its leg and falling to the floor as if its strings had been cut. Mel hoisted himself unsteadily to his feet, swaying for a moment as a wave of dizziness overtook him. Straightening, he sighted carefully, then shot it twice more in the legs; whether it survived or not, it wouldn't be coming after him in a hurry. He set his shoulders, drawing a bead on its left eye, when a frightened, incomprehensible shout shocked him out of his trance.

 

Another orderly now stood at the end of the hall, pointing at the recent carnage and yelling excitedly. As Mel targeted him, another three came rushing around the corner. Knowing there was no way he could handle all four of them, filled with the bitterest regret, Mel turned and ran.

 

His feet pounded the grass furiously as he ran around the side of the building; terribly risky, but he couldn't imagine surviving a run for the front gate. He knew the grounds were more extensive than they looked and, even better, that they gave out into a warren of apartment buildings on the other side of the fence. He could disappear into the alley ways, or at least get out into the mass of humanity, where witnesses might dissuade his pursuers from more extreme measures. All he had to do was buy a little time, and hope it didn't come at Rebecca's expense.

 

He gritted his teeth as he slipped on the grass, disappearing into the low mist that cloaked the ground. They  _must_ have been in that room the orderly had been guarding,  _must_ have; he'd been so god-damned  _close--_

 

Whatever caught his leg stopped him so sharply that his teeth clicked together on his tongue with agonizing force, sending a hot rush of blood into his mouth as his arms pinwheeled wildly and he crashed to the ground. Dazed, breathless and in pain, he thought for a moment that unconsciousness would claim him no matter how hard he fought it. But after what seemed like minutes, he was able to prop himself on his elbows and crane his neck to look back at what had tripped him.

 

A tombstone.

 

Scrambling to his knees, he wasted a few precious seconds gazing around in horrified disbelief before the logic of the situation reasserted itself. The Institute had formerly been a church; the grave markers surrounding him were merely the remnants of the churchyard. Hauling himself to his feet, he made his way forward as speedily as caution would permit. The voices were coming from out front now, confused and agitated, but it didn't sound as if they were approaching; he still had a few moments' lead, and he wasn't going to waste it on another spill.

 

Yet he nearly stumbled again as the immense, clanging shriek of abused metal tore through the night, and could not resist turning back to look behind him when the harsh, hoarse voice cut through the silence that immediately followed:

 

"_I demand an audience with the master of this house."_

 

* * *

 

Nicolescu would have cried out his agony, had the torn flesh of his throat permitted it; instead, despite the force with which he clutched the tattered edges together, it emerged as a breathless groan as he sprawled in the chair behind his desk. He hadn't thought it would matter, hadn't thought the young man could be that fast; hadn't thought the silver would make such a punishing difference. The same changes that allowed him to walk in daylight had deprived him of some of his durability, it was true, but these should have been no worse than mere puncture wounds. Disconcerting, and so very poorly timed.

 

He had staffed the clinic with a skeleton crew this night, choosing only those he thought best-prepared for the unusual events that were certain to take place; still they milled about, confused and unable to function without direction like the worthless cattle that they were. Now, now, _now_, when he so badly needed even a few moments to recover, a mere sip of vital fluids, they allowed the man to run amok, they were unable to greet his guest, they were... he gagged, briefly, as something deep within his throat wrenched itself, realigning its tissues for repair. 

 

He smiled weakly, pulling the ruined skin of his neck together, willing it to knit, to be whole. Precious seconds ticked by, each one that passed making what was to come all the harder. Prestige, protocol,  _power_ were everything; better to flaunt his wounds, show that they encumbered him not, than to hide behind his walls and his servants. He merely needed to be able to speak; and that, alas, was not quite possible yet.

 

He had known when the prince had arrived, even before he had issued his challenge; though he had known it would be impossible to miss the presence of one so old, he had still been unprepared for the reality of it. Even now, knowing what he did and possessed of the advantages he had so carefully gathered, there was still the urge to crawl, to make obeisance, to beg forgiveness and expose his throat. The mere vestiges of instinct, it was true, but to feel their pull so intimately after all of his hard work... well. The barriers would hold.

 

He looked up into the waiting, uncertain eyes of the orderlies, none of them quite able to comprehend what was now taking place, and knew that events were now almost beyond his control; he must act, soon, if only to keep them from panicking, and perhaps destroying them all with their foolishness. Levering himself to his feet, he drew himself up with as much dignity as he could muster, considering that he still had to clasp the wreckage of his throat in one hand, and nodded severely at them. He made his way past them at a measured enough pace that he hoped his weakness would be mistaken for gravitas.

 

His not quite lurching progress down the hallway seemed to take an eternity, and his lip curled in disgust to see that the front doors stood open. Not that it mattered now, he acknowledged as he made his way out onto the steps; the first impression had already been made.

 

After the decades of hearing terrible tales whispered only at dusk and dawn, as it was said he could hear anything spoken of him in darkness... the years spent planning and preparing for this very moment... the reality was almost anticlimactic. A tall, gaunt figure stood beyond the gate, arms folded behind its back, face obscured by the collar of its long coat; far from the balefire eyes, the gruesome tusks, the immense claws he had been given to expect, there was nothing to mark the intruder as anything other than mortal. Not until one realized that the heavy iron gates were bowed in as if they had been struck by a car; until one noted the broken corpse of the man who had stood guard outside of it, crumpled at his feet; not until he lifted his chin, allowing the moonlight to play over skin so luminescently pale it could never have seen the sunlight.

 

"You hold my fledgling against her will," Vladislas began without preamble, once Nicolescu had drawn close; his voice was so low and thick with menace the words were barely discernible. His lips curled in an unpleasant smile as he took note of the doctor's injuries. “Though I see that she has made her displeasure clear to you already; your obstinance does you no credit." Nicolescu almost scowled, but managed to rein it in; better he think that than realize he had been bested by a human. “You will release her to me immediately."

 

Nicolescu squeezed his throat tightly, feeling his larynx work convulsively as he attempted to force speech past his injuries; he felt the air catch against his vocal cords with a surge of gratitude. “Anything but, O prince," he rasped unsteadily. “The young one came to me... seeking succor. She wishes to be free of our... affliction."

 

"She wishes for the impossible," Vladislas snarled, lips peeled back from his fangs. He stepped forward, arms spread, his fingers flexing convulsively; Nicolescu was torn between scientific interest and superstitious dread at the sight of the extra joints and the thick, curved talons. “I might have forgiven this trespass. I might have honored you for sheltering a wayward child. But if you have encouraged her in this madness, torments the likes of which you cannot yet conceive shall be writ upon whatever remains of your damned, conniving soul."

 

"Great lord, hear me." Nicolescu put as much of an obsequious whine into his voice as he could manage, under the circumstances. “There are perhaps things... the benefits of medicine are no longer closed to us, O prince--"

 

"Who came before you?"

 

"Lord, I--"

 

"_Who came before you?"_

 

"Ash," Nicolescu admitted weakly, not seeing what harm it could do. “Ash, the music-lover."

 

Vladislas took the last step that brought him to the gate; wrapping his impossible fingers around the twisted, bulging bars, he leaned forward, allowing Nicolescu a clear look at the harsh, inhuman planes of his face. “I," he grated, “came before Ash." He released the bars and straightened slowly. “For many long nights, I have watched the rise of man, and followed their progress. I have something of a weak spot in my heart for the sciences... and I have never, in all of those nights, heard the barest whisper of such a thing; nor will I tolerate it now."

 

The movement was so quick that even Nicolescu's eyes could not follow it, but he shamed himself by flinching at the ringing clang as Vladislas struck the bars. _“Release my child to me."_

 

Nicolescu gritted his teeth despite the agony it caused him. Vladislas was as primitive and hidebound as any of the ancient ones he had ever encountered; yet, like them, it was madness to the point of suicide to balk him. If the following few moments did not transpire in perfect precision, finding himself in a state of siege would be the least of Nicolescu's problems. “That is not impossible, O prince--"

 

"Not _impossible?_"

 

"-- while I am moved by her pleas, well do I understand what difficulties the first nights can present," he continued stolidly, averting his eyes from Vladislas's rage. “But there is something I must have from you in return. The Bloodstone--"

 

"You would _dare_ to bargain with me? For my birthright?"

 

"For the sake of the sciences you hold so dear, I must, Lord." Nicolescu shook himself, releasing his throat; finally the delicate tissues had restored themselves enough to function without manual assistance. “You see me before you now; know the truth, that the bloodlust does not utterly rule me, that I can bear the kiss of daylight--"

 

"You will _roast _in it once I have finally finished with you!"

 

"\--and yet I still avail myself of the benefits of our eternal state. Prince," he said wearily, knowing better than to trust the brief hope that Vladislas might actually _listen _that fluttered within his breast, “I have done all this, and more, yet I find myself stymied. The chance to analyze it, even the smallest sample... I am afraid I must demand it of you." There. Nicolescu allowed himself to relax fractionally; the ultimatum now made, he would find out if his protections would withstand the consequences; if they did not... it was out of his hands.

 

"You are a witless, worthless thing," Vladislas hissed. “You, who have twisted yourself into a wretched parody of a _human_... you _dare _to make _demands _of _me?_ You think to hold my fledgling ransom against the greatest treasure of our kind?" His mouth contorted itself into a gruesome, humorless grin. “You will watch as I tear this place stone from stone; as I slaughter the rest of your followers; as I lay waste to every misbegotten thing you have sought to create in this place. You... you will wait, until my child has been restored to me. Only then will the punishment for your arrogance commence."

 

The intensity, the pure, undiluted  _certainty _ with which Vladislas spoke chilled him to the core; but they were only words. Stepping forward, Nicolescu bent to unlatch the gate. The force with which the guard had been thrown against it had damaged it, somehow, but he wrenched it open, letting the warped gates swing wide on their tilted hinges. “Then come and claim her, if you can."

 

Vladislas stepped forward, and for one blood-congealing instant Nicolescu knew that he had judged poorly; knew that he had finally come to the end of his long life.

 

Vladislas stopped, the tips of his boots just brushing the edges of the flagstones, and the sheer force of the hate burning in the deep pits of his eyes was barely comprehensible. Regardless of the night's outcome Nicolescu knew, as Vladislas's loathing beat at the edges of his perception like a storm of crows, that he had made an implacable enemy. So be it. It would be worth it.

 

"I shall return to you anon." The words were almost conversational; before Nicolescu had a chance to react, Vladislas was gone as if he had never been present, only the carnage he had left in his wake giving testament to his passage.

 

Nicolescu allowed himself a brief sigh, flushing the stale air from his lungs, and shoved his hair out of his eyes. The Bloodstone was not something one carried around in a pocket, he supposed; regardless of what Vladislas might have in mind, it had been proven to both of them that he could not breach the Institute's grounds. That, at least, remained a constant.

 

But the rest... unless his staff had had the wit to continue searching while he was occupied, Mel was undoubtedly long gone, and the trouble he might return with was unfathomable. And the sisters themselves... so many things to be seen to.

 

Turning, he began the awkward lurch back to the welcoming shelter of the Institute beneath the frightened, confused gazes of the staff members that clustered by the doors, and knew that the night's labors had scarcely begun. No rest for the wicked, indeed.

 

* * *

 

Rebecca was hunched in the corner once more, face buried against her knees and arms wrapped around her head; her muscles quivered with strain, and the slightest sound from any direction caused her to jerk in fear. Though it had largely been silent for some time now, she half-expected to be torn apart by bullets at any moment, despite the thickness of the door. Or perhaps the roaring screams of  _whatever _ had made those sounds would begin again as it began to pound its way in. Or merely the supercilious voice of Dr. Nicolescu letting her know that it was  _time._

 

What she did not expect to hear was the sound of a key turning in the lock.

 

She lunged to her feet, shaking with adrenalin and fear; she balled her hands into fists and raised them before her as if she had some idea of what to do with them. She had no idea what was about to happen next, but if Mel wasn't waiting on the other side of that door to lead her to safety, she'd be  _damned _ if she went anywhere else quietly.

 

The key ceased its revolution; after a heartbeat, it twisted back and forth, then was slowly withdrawn, and another key inserted. Rebecca watched numbly, sweat beading on her brow, unable to comprehend what she was seeing as the process was repeated a number of times. Finally a soft feminine voice that barely carried through the door asked, “Michelle?"

 

Rebecca released the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, her knees nearly knocking. “Dr. Lazar? Ana, is that you?"

 

"Yes! Yes it is!" The relief in her voice was unmistakable. “Michelle, are you well?"

 

Rebecca pressed her face against the door, speaking into the crack. “Ana, it's Becky. Michelle's here too."

 

She heard what might have been the hiss of indrawn breath. “Michelle is also in the room with you?" Ana's tone was awestruck. “Is she awake?"

 

Rebecca spared a glance over her shoulder; save for the occasional movement of her jaw as she sought for some morsel beneath her nails, Michelle had not moved again throughout the barrage of sound. “Not... really," she said finally. “Ana, what's going  _on?_ Why are you  _doing _ this?"

 

"Becky, I know you have no reason to believe this, but I _did not know._ I left Michelle to gather instrument, I return and she is gone; I come to check all the rooms, none of my keys work in lock... there has been violence, I cannot find the doctor... this is no accident, I know, but I cannot say why!" Her breathless recitation ended on a sob. “Please believe, I help you, I let you out--"

 

"Ana, if you mean it, leave _right now_, while you still can. Go get help, go get the police—somebody--Mel is gone, I don't know—just _go_, Ana, please. Nicolescu is behind this; he's going to try to stop you!"

 

"Becky, you cannot be alone with her! I go, I get other keys—there must be some misunderstanding, there are new people here, they do not listen--"

 

"Ana. _Ana! _Please, please, _please _listen to me!" Rebecca slammed her palm against the door for emphasis. “Go for help! Go get someone from outside, tell them what's happening here! You're our last chance!"

 

"No, no, you will see—we will fix this. I go now, but I will be back!"

 

"_Ana!"_ Rebecca screamed it so loudly her lungs clenched painfully, but there was no response, save what might have been the clicking of Ana's retreating heels.

 

"That..." Michelle's voice was paper thin, and so soft that for a moment Rebecca thought she must be imagining it. “...didn't sound too... encouraging."

 

"Oh, _Shelly!_" Rebecca hurried to her side, sinking to her haunches as she reached out to brush the hair away from Michelle's face. Michelle's chest hitched with a sharp intake of breath, her nostrils flaring, and Rebecca snatched her hand away. “Are you... how are you, Shelly?"

 

"I..." She slid her palms along the floor at her sides, as if seeking purchase. “I'm so..." She licked her lips slowly, audibly dragging her tongue along their dry creases. “I'm... bad,Becky..."

 

_You cannot be alone with her! _ The hairs on Rebecca's arms stood upright at the recollection, and she eased herself away from Michelle, unconsciously reaching down to brace one hand against the floor, in case she needed to move quickly. “I... I'm  _sorry, _ Michelle. I'm sorry I did this to us. But you've gotta hang on, okay? Did you hear Dr. Lazar? She's going to take care of this for us. You've just got to relax and be calm, okay?"

 

Michelle raised her head slightly, then seemed to think better of it, and subsided to the floor. Her lips curled away from her teeth in jerky, rictus movements; Rebecca thought that she was having a seizure, some kind of spasm, before she realized Michelle was merely trying to smile. “Hate to... say it, but... told you so."

 

The laughter came burbling up from somewhere deep in her chest, behind sanity, tinged with cheers, and Rebecca clapped her hands over her mouth to stifle the manic peals. “You—y-you did," she gasped, sniffling. “You did. I just... ah, Shelly..." Her shoulders sagged in mingled despair and relief. “The doctor was s-supposed to h-_help_..."

 

"I don't trust her," Michelle whispered, her eyes drooping closed. She inhaled again, her bosom straining with the force of it, and let the air escape with a thin whistle. “Give... gimme a sec." She flopped a hand weakly at Rebecca, who obliged by scurrying back to give her room. Slowly, painfully, Michelle rolled herself onto her belly. Seeming exhausted by even that paltry effort, she lay still for a few moments, apparently gathering her strength, for she finally worked her arms beneath her body and levered herself up.

 

Rebecca backed away further as she climbed to her feet with a painful, aching slowness. Standing, she stretched, rolling her head back and forth on her neck, her fingers splayed at her sides. “Okay," she murmured. “Okay." Closing her eyes, she licked her lips once more, her hands balling into fists. She flexed her fingers, as if in expectation of something, but merely stood, every line of her form bespeaking her intense concentration. She fisted her hands once more, and stumbled forward a half step, her eyes flying open in an expression of shocked dismay. “Okay," she muttered again, “okay, I can't do it." For the first time her voice held some color, but Rebecca wished ardently that it were not a thin thread of panic she was hearing.

 

Spinning on her heel with a surprising burst of vitality, Michelle crossed the short distance to the entrance of their cell, and began feeling at the lever that served as its doorknob. “Michelle, I already tried the door," Rebecca offered weakly, uncertain of what had just transpired, but knowing that it boded no good.

 

"I haven't." Gripping the handle firmly, rather than twisting it, Michelle simply began to _pull_, straining against the immense weight of the door. A protest at the futility of such an action rose to Rebecca's lips, but as she began to voice it she was cut off by the squeal of twisting metal. She stared gape-mouthed as Michelle planted her feet and leaned back, still pulling; a thin thread of light, so slender she almost dismissed it as wishful thinking, now fell upon the floor through the space where the buckled door no longer sat flush with the jamb.

 

Metal creaked again, and Rebecca clambered to her feet, scarcely able to credit what she was seeing; her delicate sister, who'd barely managed to pass high school gym, was slowly but surely wrenching the door away from its frame. If she could only snap the shank holding the lock—they'd still have to win their way free of the Institute, but at least they would have a  _chance. _ She scrambled to her feet, willing Michelle on with every fiber of her being, but scared to make the slightest sound or move that might distract her.

 

As if sensing Rebecca's urgency, Michelle raised one leg to brace against the wall beside the door, her skirt falling in a tangled cascade as she threw the full weight of her body into her efforts. The door whined again, and pulled another, visible inch away from its moorings as the sound of its destruction increased in volume. Surely another moment, another  _second _ and it would part from its frame—but Michelle slipped, her hands coming free, the force she had been applying to the door sending her crashing to the concrete with a sickening, bone-jarring thud.

 

"_Shelly!" _Rebecca hurried back to her, uncertain of what to do but knowing she needed to help. Michelle tried to raise herself on her elbows, but slithered back to the ground, her eyelids fluttering. “Shelly, are you okay? Michelle, please, talk to me!"

 

Her mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before she managed to force speech from it. “I'm... let me... rest for a minute, Becky," she wheezed. “Let me... think."

 

"Okay, okay, just as long as you're--" Frantic with worry, her eyes darted back and forth between her fallen sister and the obviously damaged door. If one of Nicolescu's servants happened to come along... “Maybe... maybe I can get my hand through the gap, and unlock it that way," she said in a rush, seizing on the idea. “You just stay here, okay? Just rest."

 

Hurrying to the door, she spent a fruitless moment attempting to wedge her hand through the gap, skinning the rise of her thumb badly, before turning back to see how her sister was doing. Michelle had rolled onto her side, and the feral, predatory interest that glittered in her eyes caused Rebecca to redouble her efforts at the door.

 

* * *

 

It was the stitch in his side that finally sent Mel stumbling to his knees.

 

Doubling over to clutch his midsection, gray spots danced before his vision as he fought for breath. His arms were like leaden weights dragging him down, save for the searing pain of his crushed wrist, and he leaned forward, his forehead almost brushing the cool, damp grass. He sucked air savagely through teeth clenched in agony as he struggled to gather himself, to  _get the hell up_ , to get out of this Godforsaken place, but his limbs would not cooperate.

 

Finally able to raise his head, he beheld the tall iron spires of the fence at the rear of the grounds, and sagged in dismay; they were nearly twice as tall as the gates out front, nearly fifteen feet high. Though the slick bars would provide little purchase, they would not have presented much of a problem under other circumstances. In his debilitated state, he wasn't certain that he could do it at all; he definitely couldn't manage it while keeping the gun drawn.

 

Didn't matter. He'd have to. Somehow.

 

He dragged himself the last few feet and allowed himself to collapse against the bars, wincing as his injuries protested the new posture; he must have hurt his leg a lot more badly than he'd realized when he fell. There wasn't any time to rest, they'd be after him any moment—but he simply could not go any farther; not until he had a chance to catch his breath. He'd fight, if they came upon him, but he could not run.

 

He had been expecting claws and teeth to sink into his back at any moment, and perhaps it was the fact that none had that allowed him to convince himself it was acceptable to rest. Minutes had passed, perhaps as long as a quarter of an hour, since he'd heard the thing's voice; it was hard to judge the passage of time through the muddled fog of pain. That had distracted them, obviously, but he'd heard nothing since; too much to hope that they'd all managed to kill each other off, he knew, but it was a nice idea. It certainly seemed to have kept his pursuers occupied, but he didn't think it mattered much; they'd get around to him once they could. They could probably smell him, track him like a rabbit.

 

He craned his neck upwards to regard the fence he leaned against once more, willing himself to find the strength to climb it; but he knew he could not, not yet. That had to have been Vladislas out there, and if what Nicolescu had said to him was true, he'd still be out there, and mad as hell to boot; he'd probably be delighted to get a chance to settle his score with Mel. So even once he managed to escape from this particular batch of vampires, he'd have to be on his guard and ready for anything... not that there was much keeping them from chasing him into the city itself, either.

 

Bad odds.

 

Didn't matter. He'd figure it out. But not... not while he was so tired.

 

He leaned back against the fence, letting his head droop; he didn't doze, exactly, but his body and mind had both reached the point where it was simply impossible to continue any father. Though his senses remained somewhat alert, his thoughts were blank; he concentrated merely on breathing, on staying awake, on silencing the howls of agony from the wounds he had taken that night. Despite Nicolescu's assurances that the scratches Michelle had dealt him were merely scratches—and what were those worth?--his face throbbed with a sick, feverish discomfort, and his wrist--

 

He jerked upright at the soft tinking sound; tried to scramble to his feet, but his bad leg gave way beneath him. He pulled himself into a crouch, straining his eyes and ears for signs of pursuit, but none were forthcoming. Might have been the breeze, might have been the grass rustling against some piece of junk hidden in the lawn--

 

This time he saw it: a tiny glimmer described an arc through the air, flying past him to bounce off the nearest of the gravestones. It skittered and hopped across the grass, landing nearly at his at his feet. He leaned forward, neglecting to consider its point of origin while he considered what it was, and deeply regretted that when he realized that it was a flattened silver slug.

 

Something wrapped around his midsection with punishing, crushing force, hauling him back against the bars of the fence as a cold, leathery hand clamped over the lower part of his face, stifling his shout of dismay. He managed to get the gun up, jamming it behind him into something hard and unyielding, but the rusty, croaking sound of laughter in his ear stilled his trigger finger. He was wrenched back against the bars again, banging his head painfully. “That didn't work the first time, either."

 

Oh,  _shit._

 

He kicked his legs futilely, scrabbling for some kind of purchase, but the effort merely earned him a brutal shake. “You are a nuisance, a thief, and an interloper," the dead voice grated into his ear, “but if you have only the wit to listen, you may yet prove to have a purpose."

 

The grip around his mouth and nose loosened fractionally, and Mel panted gratefully, his pulse thudding in his ears. “You oppose this craven jackal as steadfastly as you have opposed me, and tonight, I find it within myself to admire that." The chill, rough fingers slipped beneath his nose, letting him free, letting him _breathe. _“This slinking, fearful one has stolen from both of us, and cowers within his stronghold to gloat, where even I cannot beard him unassisted. Only bid me cross this threshold, and I shall see him destroyed." The hand withdrew entirely from his face, leaving him free to gasp desperately for air.

 

"You're _crazy_," he coughed, squirming against the implacable grip that pinned him to the fence. “You'll kill us all!"

 

Fingers bit into his neck like wires, choking what little breath he'd managed to regain from him; he could feel the hot trickle of blood from the punctures the tips of its claws had made. “If that was my aim this night, do you truly think you could prevent it?" it purred into his ear. “Use your weapon, if it pleases you. I am sure the parvenu will be delighted to learn where you have been hiding; as delighted as I will be, to see you torn apart." The claws dug in fractionally, widening the thin weals of pain, before releasing him entirely. “You have made yourself my enemy and tried me sorely... but for this, and only this, I may look past it."

 

Mel wheezed dully, his vision wavering as he struggled for coherence. “You're... you say you'll let us all go, if I let you in?"

 

"_Never." _The voice was a crisp growl. “My pretty one will remain with me, as is her place. But your woman is... _dear_ to her." The backs of its knuckles brushed delicately against Mel's cheek, stroking his face, and he couldn't prevent himself from flinching; the creature laughed again. “Do this thing, and I shall reunite you with your bride."

 

Mel blinked furiously, trying to center his thoughts, and squirmed unconsciously as he did so; the arm around his chest tightened just enough to remind him of just what an impossible situation he found himself in. If he told it no, it was going to kill him. If he let it in, it would probably still kill him; he knew better than to expect one of these things to keep its word. And to leave Michelle in its hands... they'd done all of this for her, but she was one of  _them_ ; they were vicious, untrustworthy, they were  _monsters. _ She hadn't harmed them yet... but she was new. Becky didn't deserve that, didn't deserve to have to hold a tiger by its tail until it finally turned on her.

 

And if it wreaked enough havoc, maybe in the confusion... maybe Michelle would be able to keep it from killing Becky... maybe they could... maybe... He bit his lip, too tired, too worn, too out of his depth to continue further. It was a slight chance, but it was the only one he had.

 

"Alright," he said finally, hoping he was not about to damn them all. “Alright." His mouth was suddenly bone dry, as if attempting to prevent him from carrying out his decision. “I..." He paused, wondering just how much the invitation affected them. “As long as you're going to get that son of a bitch, come on in."

 

He let his eyes drift shut, and waited to find out if he'd just made the last mistake of his life.


	7. Chapter 7

It was broken.

 

Finally, after scraping her wrist raw in the doing, Rebecca had managed to work her hand into the narrow, twisted gap Michelle's efforts had left between the door and the frame just far enough to brush the outside plate with her fingertips. She had managed a tenuous grip on the knob, just firmly enough to realize that it was now immobile; she couldn't even jiggle it back and forth, as she had before. She could see the shank now, still locked into the door frame, and while it didn't  _ look  _ twisted, she could only imagine that Michelle had somehow wrenched it out of true.

  


"I think we're stuck, Michelle," she said, carefully working her hand free. Relieved from the nagging pain, she sank to her knees, too spent to be grateful for even that small release.

  


"I'll get it," Michelle answered after a time. "Just... I need to lie down for a bit, I..."

  


"Oh..." Rebecca raised her hand to her mouth in dismay as she beheld how rapidly her sister had declined. Her fall to the floor had been bad, but... though she quickly shoved the thought aside, her first reaction was that Michelle looked  _ dead. _ Her eyes were sunk deep in their bruised hollows, her cheeks drawn and thin, her skin waxy and stiff. "How... how are you?" 

  


"Not... so good." Michelle's mouth curved in a parody of a smile, exposing the sickly, dark gums beneath. "Been a..." She drew a ragged breath. "Been a rough couple of days."

  


Rebecca forced a weak chuckle at the sally, pleased that Michelle felt well enough to make it. "You're not kidding." She rubbed her hands together, trying to work some feeling back into her numb fingertips; her arm was alive with the prickle of returning blood. "What were you doing out there?" she asked carefully.

  


Michelle's attempt at a smile widened. "Same thing, I think." She licked her lips. "I was trying to keep him... occupied... give you guys a chance to... figure stuff out... make a break for it." She sighed, and reached up to rub at her mouth. "Pretty bad news."

  


"Did he hurt you?" She knew it was a stupid question even as she asked it, but Michelle's tight, brief nod tore her heart all the same.

  


"Pretty bad news," she repeated, letting her eyes drift shut. "He... we... I think we..." She trailed off, lips a thin, unhappy line. She rubbed at her mouth again. "I'm just... I can't concentrate, I..."

  


"It's okay, Shelly--"

  


_ "No."  _ Michelle's eyes snapped open, and she braced her palms against the floor, nails digging into the concrete. "No, I-no, I've gotta get the door." She rolled over and rose to her hands and knees with sudden, catlike grace, and scuttled rapidly to the door. She worked her hand into the gap and grabbed the shank, pushing and pulling at it alternately. "I can... _ do  _ stuff, it just... takes it out of me, and I..." She worked feverishly at the metal bar, yanking it back and forth for a few moments until she had widened the gap enough to wiggle her other hand into it as well. "I just... I'm sorry, Becky, but you smell so _ good!"  _ She wrenched herself free and buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with some unspeakable emotion.

  


The hairs on the back of Rebecca's neck rose in ancient defiance as the true enormity of Michelle's despairing wail sunk in. She'd been refusing to think of it, but she now found herself faced with undeniable fact: Michelle was exhausted, ill, poisoned. She was suffering.

  


She was starving.

  


Rebecca had been locked in here with her to serve as breakfast.

  


Rage at Nicolescu boiled anew within her, almost fiery enough to override the revulsion and terror. Rebecca had had a hand in this; she wasn't innocent, and it wasn't fair to turn away and refuse to face it. Michelle was trying her hardest to free them, to remove the awful temptation for both of their sakes. She was doing her best. She couldn't help what she was.

  


She looked down at her scraped wrist, the tender pink flesh revealed by the abrasions. Her tongue felt like lead as she spoke the words that seemed to emanate from somewhere else. "Maybe... maybe if I squeezed it a little bit."

  


Michelle's head whipped around, only the shiny black of her eye visible over her shoulder as she stared at Rebecca with frightful intensity. Rebecca dropped her gaze, unable to think any harder about what she had just offered to do, and waited silently.

  


"That's... that's so _ gross,  _ Becky!"

  


Rebecca's head jerked up; she was unable to believe what she'd just heard. Their eyes met again, and the humorous, horrified look on Michelle's face was too much: she laughed, long and loud, doubling over to clutch at her belly as the gales of hysterical mirth overcame her. Michelle's giggles were weak, at first, but the absurdity was catching; soon they were both cackling wildly, reveling in the brief respite from their fears.

  


Michelle sagged back against the wall, drawing her knees up to her chest and hugging herself tightly as her laughter finally subsided. "Ah, Becky," she sighed, "we're in trouble here."

  


"I... I meant it. If it'll help."

  


"It's... not like having a sandwich." Michelle buried her face against her knees, muffling her next words. "I keep telling myself... but I think he's right, Becky, I think he... we're just... I don't think I can..."

  


" _ Stop  _ it, Michelle!" Rebecca's voice was high and whipcord sharp. "You're just... being a  _ wimp! _ " She almost laughed at the childishness of the insult, but managed to rein herself in. "He's not right about  _ anything!  _ It's okay if you can't get the door. Dr. Lazar will come back," she said with more conviction than she felt, "but you have to wait for her! This is... this is going to be okay, Shelly." She reached out and took Michelle's hand, working her fingers into her sister's icy grip, and forced a smile. "Promise."

  


Michelle raised her head slightly to look at her. "Promise?"

  


Rebecca's smile became a little more natural at the sheer belief in her sister's voice. "Promise." She sank to her haunches beside Michelle, reaching out to lay a hand on her shoulder. Capable of ripping steel doors out of their frames or not, Michelle was still her kid sister, and always would be.

  


Michelle's fingers worked their way up to entwine with Rebecca's own, and she gave Michelle a reassuring squeeze as she shifted her weight to allow her to sit. Michelle's grip tightened and Rebecca let her legs splay before her, and she wiggled her fingers in an attempt to relieve the pressure. Michelle obligingly loosened her grip, her palm sliding lightly over Rebecca's abrasions a sharp, stinging discomfort. "Easy there," she said, as Michelle's hand settled on her forearm. Her arm was bent awkwardly, but as she attempted to shift it to a more comfortable position, Michelle's grip tightened implacably.

  


The realization that Michelle meant to take her up on her offer after all was instantaneous: Rebecca's gorge rose, and she squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to keep from losing her dinner. She tried to think of visits to the doctor, shots,  _ anything  _ to blunt the reality of what was about to happen.

  


"Shhh." Michelle's reply was so soft, so hollow, so  _ inhuman  _ that Rebecca had to bite her lip to keep from whimpering in fear. Cold, hard fingers explored her wounds, the ragged edge of a nail catching the edge of a scrape enough to elicit a soft hiss of pain. For they were only scrapes; they had barely bled at all. Hardly enough for a taste. 

  


_ I told her to do this,  _ Rebecca thought frantically, as the fingers sought higher up her arm, coming to rest at the curve of her elbow.  _ I  _ told  _ her to do this.  _ She'd given blood a few times back in college; she tried to recall the prick of the needle, the feel of her blood draining into the rubber tubes, the dreamy lassitude of watching the plastic bag hanging at her shoulder fill with muddy red. "Please be careful," she whispered.

  


"Shut  _ up _ ," Michelle snarled, and Rebecca flinched at the hoarse ferocity of her sister's voice. She straightened, heels scrabbling against the floor for purchase as she tried to struggled upright, but Michelle shook her roughly, barking her shoulder blades roughly against the damp concrete wall. "Don't, Becky, just  _ don't. _ " 

  


Rebecca's eyelids ached from the force with which she held them closed; a prosaic, comprehensible discomfort to focus on as she heard Michelle shift against the stone floor, as she felt  _ something  _ brush against her shoulder. She squirmed again completely without volition as Michelle's grip tightened; could not resist a strangled whimper of fear as Michelle's cheek rubbed against her own.

  


"Don't, Becky,  _ please."  _ Michelle's voice was almost pleading, but there was a harsh, predatory note the likes of which Rebecca had never heard before, and hoped desperately never to hear again. "It's... it's already hard... to... just  _ don't _ ... just... just sit still, okay?"

  


Rebecca wanted to agree, wanted to tell her anything that would make her  _ stop doing it _ , but she knew she was far too late for a reprieve.  _ I told her to do this _ , she reminded herself viciously as Michelle nuzzled the curve of her jaw; as bizarre and repellent as the contact was, she nearly screamed despite herself when she realized that there was no breath tickling the soft flesh beneath her ear.

  


_ Oh God,  _ help me.

  


Michelle's hands came down hard on her shoulders, pinning her against the wall with brutal efficiency. Rebecca felt the brush of her skirts are Michelle moved with agonizing slowness to kneel between her spread legs. She gave a guttural, choking gasp as Michelle's face rubbed along her collar bone, stroking each cheek back and forth like a cat. Her pulse pounded in her ears, shivery gray spots dancing against the blackness of her closed lids, and as the nausea rose once more she found herself torn between elation and horror at the realization that she was going to pass out. She didn't want this, didn't want it to happen, didn't want to know it; but Michelle seemed to be at least somewhat cognizant of her comfort. The idea of what might happen if her sister were suddenly presented with a motionless, unresisting piece of meat... she was crying, now, helpless, hopeless tears burning their way down her wan cheeks, but she was as powerless to prevent them as she was to free herself from any of this.

  


She let her head lolled as Michelle's fingers dug into her shoulders, unable to so much as support its weight any longer; she craved the sweet bliss of insensibility so badly she could no longer bring herself to worry whether or not she would ever awaken from it. She sniffled as hair brushed across her face, resigned to the inevitable; she expected the sharp, ripping pain of teeth in her throat at any moment, and could only hope that enough of Michelle was left to keep from murdering her... or wasting her.

  


But nothing came: there was only stillness, silence save for the ragged hitch of her own breathing, until she thought she would go mad from the terror of anticipation. Her muscles were clenched so tightly that she thought they would soon begin to destroy themselves from the sheer pressure of her dread.

  


What came instead was a ripping, tearing scream of desolation and horror, so wretched and hateful that she could scarcely stand to hear it. White bolts of pain lanced across her vision as her skull cracked against the wall. She was too dazed to know for certain what happened next, but when she finally mustered the will to sit up and pry her eyes open, she hardly knew what to make of what she saw. Michelle crouched beneath the window at the far side of the room, her arms wrapped around her head. Obscured as they were by her hair and forearms, the pale, bloodless gouges across her forehead were unmistakable; she shivered uncontrollably, an occasional tremor wracking her body so fiercely she nearly lost her balance.

  


Rebecca's hand flew to her throat, amazed to find it whole and smooth beneath her fingers. Nothing hurt, save her head; nothing  _ bled. _ A tiny miracle in the midst of all this horror; somewhere within herself, Michelle had found the will not to savage her. But Rebecca's skin remembered the feel of her seeking, greedy hands, her ears the sounds of her hungry growls, and she could not bring herself to be grateful.

  


Nor could she bring herself to move; regretted that she had done so at all, when the slightest shift of her heel against the floor provoked a violent shake in her Michelle's body. Dazed, almost incapable of coherent thought, she lay back against the wall and let the ache throb between her temples. She tried briefly to tell herself that it had not truly been her sister doing that, that Michelle would never have done such a thing were she in her right mind... but the nails, the fangs, had been so very, very close...

  


When she first caught sight of it, she assumed it was a trick of her addled vision; almost hoped for a concussion, a brain injury, something that would allow her to make sense of this. But the looming shadows yawned, and stretched; in the blink of an eye, Michelle was wrapped in the arms of the cadaverous monster they had thought to hide from behind these walls. She might have gasped--something in her chest hitched--but she was so numb, so disconnected, so  _ spent,  _ that all she could do was watch.

  


Michelle squealed, a frightened, frustrated sound, as Radu enfolded her, but she seemed to recognize him almost instantly; or perhaps her hunger was merely great enough to have snapped her self control regardless of who was near. Her fingers dug into Radu's arms with punishing force, and for a moment, Rebecca thought she meant to attack him, to throw him off. And perhaps she did; they seemed to struggle for a moment, movements too fast to follow in the darkness. Michelle seized hold of his wrist and, with unrestrained ferocity, sank her teeth into his flesh.

  


Rebecca expected a cry of pain, a blow, some reaction to the attack; but he merely pulled Michelle closer, smoothing her hair with his free hand, the spidery fingers lost in her waves. She could hear the sibilance of his voice as he whispered in Michelle's ear, almost nuzzling her, though Rebecca could make out no words. And all the while Michelle chewed at his wrist, his blood smearing her mouth; Rebecca could not decide if she was more disgusted by the animal savagery with which she gnawed him, or by the tenderness with which he cradled her.

  


She stayed frozen, her palms damp with sweat, both transfixed by and terrified to interrupt whatever alien congress now took place before her eyes, but it grew more and more difficult to retain what little composure she still possessed as it dragged on. The gravelly rise and fall of Radu's grating, off-key voice was not enough to drown out the wet sucking and tearing sounds of Michelle's feeding. Those sounds might have been the last thing Rebecca ever heard as her own throat was torn open; and as she watched her sister's unnatural gluttony, realized that it was entirely possible that they still would be.

  


She might have whimpered in fear, or made some faint sound as she cowered further against the wall; perhaps it was some keen, predatory sense that she would never be able to understand. But as if they had heard her thoughts, suddenly both pairs of eyes fixed her with gimlet stares, and she could not repress a sob at the promise of violence she saw in both faces.

  


Michelle slowly released Radu's wrist, her gaze never wavering from Rebecca's face. Blood smeared her mouth and ran down her chin, a garish clown mask of bestiality that gleamed black in the moonlight. This time Rebecca did mewl, knowing that she saw her imminent death in that flat, unreadable stare. But at that faint sound of terror, something flickered across Michelle's face; something forlorn and ashamed.

  


She did not speak, but laid a hand on Radu's chest; he lowered his head, as if to listen to her more closely, but his eyes never left Rebecca. Michelle looked up at him, her jaw firmly set, somehow dignified, but there was something in her eyes that begged for understanding. Radu shifted to look at her, and for a long moment, they simply beheld each other. There was no telling what sort of communication might have passed behind that gaze, but finally Michelle slowly, carefully freed herself from the monster's embrace. She rose to her feet in a fluid motion more graceful than any human might have aspired to and turned to face Rebecca, her hands clenched at her sides.

  


"We have to go," she said, her husky voice throbbing with some nameless tension. Radu slowly unfolded himself from his crouch, rising behind her like a nightmare made flesh. "There are things to do. But I'll come back and let you out." She captured Rebecca's gaze with her own, and she found herself drowning in Michelle's eyes, fear and exhaustion making them seem deep enough to drown in. There was anguish, there, savagery and despair; but the most terrifying thing of all was the defiance; Michelle was not as ashamed of what had transpired as Rebecca had been horrified by it.

  


She seemed to be waiting for some kind of response, which Rebecca could not bring herself to give. She hugged her knees tightly to her chest, peering up at the two sepulchral figures with superstitious dread; as the silence stretched out, she forced herself to give a brief nod, hoping it would appease.

  


Michelle's mouth tightened, but she said nothing. Radu's arm wrapped around her shoulders once more, his fingers splayed across her throat with easy possessiveness; then they were gone, as if they had never been present.

  


Rebecca buried her face against her knees and wept.

 

*          *          *

He lay bonelessly against the fence for an endless, breathless moment, steeling himself for the wrenching, tearing blow he was sure was to come. Yet once he yielded to his lungs' demand for air, his eyelids fluttered open of their own volition, and Mel realized that he was alone.

 

He didn't credit it, not at first; that thing was probably skulking around somewhere nearby, offering the illusion of safety simply for the joy in snatching it away from him. There was no way to convince it that he was dead, or had fainted, but he attempted to remain as still as possible while his finger crept cautiously into the trigger guard of his pistol. Mel no longer entertained any illusions of being able to survive another encounter with it, but he'd be  _ damned  _ if he made it easy for it.

 

Yet as the heartbeats ticked by, the long, shuddering breaths, the involuntary twitches of his lids, he came to believe that no attack was forthcoming. His eyes had been closed, but he had not heard a sound: not the rustle of fabric, not the faintest crunch of gravel. He cracked his eyelids, and peered cautiously from side to side before opening them fully. Encouraged, he pushed himself up against the bars and turned his head to look behind him. It might be out there lurking in the low fog, but there was no disturbed mist to mark its passage. Mel couldn't fathom how it had managed it, but it seemed to be gone.

 

Though he scarcely believed his good fortune--he never for a moment suspected it had merely kept its promise--Mel supposed it made sense: the promise of carnage within was probably much more tempting than the fleeting amusement of tearing him limb from limb. He strained his ears, half-hoping for screams from the building, but could hear nothing but the rustle of leaves and, inspiring a longing so intense it was nearly painful, the distant sounds of traffic.

 

He sagged back against the fence, the closest he had come to relaxation since they had set foot on the property. Craning his neck painfully, he looked up at the bars once more; the thought of scaling them bare-handed was enough to make him quail. He could do it. He  _ had  _ to do it. Never mind the rotten throb of his wrist, the burning ache of the stitches in his face, the quietly terrifying numbness of his leg; he had to get up, get out, and go get help. A tavern, a phone booth, even a policeman's radio; any kind of contact with the larger world would net him enough assistance to see this unholy place razed to the ground. It would be better that way; no awkward questions asked, no impossible answers to give. Terrorists. Black market organ harvesters. A drug lab. Something. Anything else.

 

He just had to get over the fence. Over the fence, and out of Becky's life forever; for whatever he had told himself only moments ago, he didn't really believe she'd last more than five minutes once those things started fighting each other, even if Michelle did try to protect her. They didn't strike him as the type to be all too concerned about collateral damage.

 

And Becky was in there with them.

 

Mel was fully aware of how stupid he was being, even as he slowly, painfully hauled himself to his feet, pulling himself up the bars for support. As amazing a person as she had proven to be, she was still only one person. It was ridiculous to value her more than the potential devastation this nest of vipers might wreak if allowed to flourish unchecked; he wanted her safe, but he wanted the  _ world  _ safe even more, and the only thing that would guarantee it was fleeing and seeking backup  _ right now. _

 

He told himself all of that firmly as he shuffled awkwardly back the way he had come through the graveyard, moving carefully to avoid another fall. He still repeated it to himself as he lurched across the smooth, clipped lawn, but he finally gave it up when the window he had made his precipitous exit from hove once more into view.

 

He screened himself behind a shrub, too uncertain of his leg to crouch and make the most of what little protection it offered. The debris from the fall was still in evidence, broken crossbeams jutting awkwardly from the frame, twisted nails gleaming dully with the promise of tetanus amongst the glitter of shattered glass. A light had been turned on somewhere within the building--by the diffuse gleam, he suspected it was further down the adjoining hall that contained the doctor's office--but he could detect no shadows of movement. More ominously, he could hear nothing whatsoever from within. Not so much as the sound of feet on the tiled floors, never mind the sounds of conflict he had expected. Too busy to clean up after such an obvious breach of security--not to mention their failure to come after him--but no evidence of what might actually be going on. He could not imagine what might be going on in there.

 

Only one way to find out.

 

Mel crept forward as stealthily as he could, silently cursing the leg that was already stiffening towards immobility.  _ At least it doesn't hurt.  _ He edged toward the window at an oblique angle, the gun raised, and watched carefully as more of the interior crept into view. The body of the thing he'd shot earlier was gone, though dark, tacky smears of blood marked the spot where it had fallen. He wasn't certain if that was good news or bad news. Under normal circumstances he'd assume that the residents had simply dealt with their casualty; in this case, it was entirely possible that it had simply gotten up and walked away.

 

But Becky was close, practically within arm's reach. He could get her out, hop right back out the window, and make a break for it; it would be a lot easier with her help, given his debilitated state. They were both going to be in a world of hurt if she wasn't in the room at the end of the hall, as he surmised, but he refused to let himself think of that as he carefully checked the hall for signs of inhabitation, doubly unwilling to be caught out as he had been earlier. As satisfied as he could be that it was clear, he hitched himself over the windowsill and into the belly of the beast.

 

He knew that something was terribly wrong as soon as his feet hit the floor. The door that he was certain had contained Becky was buckled, as if it had been kicked by something with incomprehensible strength. Panic momentarily overriding his caution, he hurried over, trying to figure out what had happened--had one of them tried to get in? Had Becky found a way to keep them out? Had the door simply swung back on its hinges after they had torn it open and dragged her out? But no--he could see the dull steel of the shank, still securing the door to the thick concrete of the wall, though the door had been yanked a shocking distance away from its frame. His knee finally gave out as he staggered over; he collapsed against the wall with a thud. "Becky?" he whispered; his heart sank at the lack of response. "Rebecca?" He couldn't be too late. "Becky?"  _ Couldn't. _

 

"Mel?" He nearly crowed with relief at the familiar response, and bared his teeth at the frightened disbelief in her tone. " _ Mel?  _ Oh,  _ Mel! _ " He heard a brief scrabbling, and grinned delightedly when her eye appeared in the gap. "Be careful! They're out there, a-and--"

 

"I know, Becky, I know. Just stay calm." He examined the battered remains of the lock, and quickly determined that whatever had damaged it had rendered it unpickable, even had he possessed more than rudimentary skills. He could think of only one quick way to get it open, but it would mean risking everything on one slim chance. "Becky, I need you to go to the other side of the room."

 

"But--"

 

" _ Do it, _ okay? Go to the other side of the room, and crouch down in the corner. Put your arms up over your head. I'm gonna get you out of here." He stumbled to his feet, and swayed for a terrifying moment before he found his balance. He checked the slide, then hopped backwards to check his angle. The silver slugs in the clip were soft, and probably no match for the heavy steel of the lock; it would be an even greater irony if he had come so far only to kill one or the other of them with the ricochet. "Are you back there?" he asked, his voice hard with strain. He heard a muffled response that he took as assent; firming his stance, he took aim, and fired three times.

 

The sound of gunfire was deafening in the narrow hallway; if he had somehow managed to escape detection thus far, their pursuers would be on them in mere moments. Mel had a bad moment when he saw that the shank was still in place, but a rough shove that was almost a collapse sent the door flying open, and he nearly fell into Rebecca's arms.

 

She flung her arms around him, burying her hands in his hair and pressing her cheek against his. "Oh my God, Mel, I thought you were--oh  _ God,  _ Mel, it's--he's  _ here,  _ Mel, Radu's  _ inside _ \--"

 

"I know," he whispered. "We've got to get out of here right now. There's a window--"

 

"Michelle went with him--I don't--she--"

 

His heart ached for her, but there was no time for her to prevaricate, no matter how bitter the choice was. "Becky, I'm sorry, but we'll have to try and come back for her. Nicolescu tricked us, and they're all going to start fighting each other any minute now; we  _ can't  _ be here when that happens. Now come  _ on! _ " He flung an arm around her shoulder, shifting the gun to his free hand. "You've gotta help me, Becky."

 

"But--" The tracks of tears streaked her face in the dim light, making of it a mask of grief and terror that only deepened when she finally realized how bad his condition was. "How did they hurt you?"

 

"It doesn't matter, but you've got to come with me.  _ Please. _ " He hopped forward, pulling her with him as best as he could; with no further protest, she took some of his weight and helped him hobble back out into the hallway. He turned her immediately towards the window, nearly managing to send them both tumbling to the floor; their freedom was so near he could practically taste it, and it made him incautious. He pulled her close, embarrassed at how heavily he had to lean upon her, but immensely grateful that she was there to be leaned upon, as they made the brief half-hopping progress back to the window. He pushed her forward, but she shook her head, placing a hand at the small of his back to steady him.

 

"You first. I don't think I could pull you out, but if we both--"

 

"Becky--"

 

"Come on--if you swing your bad leg over, I can--"

 

With an irritated growl, he gave up the argument and released her, switching the gun to the tightest grip he could manage with his injured hand as he leaned against the window sill. Bracing his hip, he hoisted his wounded leg up as high as he could manage in an attempt to avoid the glass shards still jutting from the frame. Rebecca grabbed his ankle and lifted, trying to help. She stole a worried glance at his face, checking to see if her efforts pained him; her expression transformed into a grimace of shocked revulsion half a heartbeat before he felt the claws sink into his shoulders.

 

She screamed, a wrenching, bloodcurdling sound as he spun around in dazed pain, trying to slam whatever it was that grasped him into the wall, inadvertently stumbling between her and the window. The thing only dug its talons in deeper, and he felt cold spittle dot his cheek as it hissed, snapping wildly for his throat.

 

" _ Becky!  _ The  _ doors!" _ he shouted as he struggled with the weight that was bearing him implacably down. He wrenched his bad arm up, knowing that the first shot was likely to send the gun spinning from his weak grip; he only hoped she'd be smart enough to run while she had the chance. Shoving the barrel into something soft and yielding behind him, he jerked the trigger the same instant he felt the claws puncture his throat.

 

*          *        *

Michelle could find them all, in the hot dark rush that scourged her veins, so intense and engulfing that it granted new senses merely so that it could be perceived. There were only a few of them here: some clustered towards the back of the building, perhaps planning to mount some sort of defense; a scant few cowered in the basement, hoping to hide; and one flickering life that glowed so brightly it hurt made its way across the grounds, choosing to flee rather than face the retribution that was sure to follow whether its master won or lost. But the effort of seeing them,  _ knowing  _ them, keeping the tangled skeins of life separate in her mind, was too much on top of everything else. She could not manage to fly, let alone soar; before she realized that she possessed feet once again, she was stumbling across the floor.

 

She spread her arms for balance, and was disoriented enough to be glad when someone took her hand and placed their own at the small of her back to steady her; she was so badly in need of reassurance that it did not greatly distress her when she realized that her companion could only be Radu. She squeezed his palm before easing her way free of his grasp, the tickle of his claws against her skin almost unbearable in her heightened state.

 

"I anticipate the explanation for this affray most ardently," he rumbled.

 

She nodded tightly, not trusting herself to speak. Though the taste of his substance had been as revivifying as ever, the roil of power was in its own way almost as overwhelming as the excruciating hunger that had driven her to... behave as she had. She felt woozy, excited, grieved, vengeful; she knew not what she might do, were she left to her own devices.

 

Fortunately, there was business to attend to.

 

For the first time in life or undeath, Michelle strode down the hallway with murder in her heart.

 

The need to rip and rend, to slaughter, to  _ punish  _ was a wild, wailing lust within her. Radu had not been correct. Her tenacious grip on her mortality had  _ not  _ been a constant source of sorrow and despair. Her connection to her sister had not brought capture and danger down upon her; Rebecca had  _ not  _ caused her nearly insurmountable trouble, however unwittingly she had done so. Michelle  _ was not wrong. _

 

It was merely this interloper, this  _ outsider,  _ this arrogant, presumptuous  _ fool  _ who had thought to interfere in her doings. Had it not been for his outrageous attempts to control her--and while some small part of her quailed at her own hubris, she could not imagine what manner of idiot thought to waylay a woman who had matched wits so successfully with Radu Vladislas himself--things would have gone according to plan. None of this would have befallen them. They would have succeeded.

 

And for the ruination of those dreams alone, he would die screaming.

 

Radu ghosted along behind her as she unerringly made her way to her opponent, a lean, hungry shadow. She could feel the thin tendrils of his anger pulsing against her skin; but what she could sense most of all was the feral, vicious glee with which he looked forward to redressing whatever insult he had suffered. So be it; on this night, she could share in it. Both of their wishes would be granted. He had sought so hard to make her accept what he insisted was her native savagery; on this night, she would not merely embrace it--she would  _ revel  _ in it.

 

Down the cluttered hall, her skirts flapping around her ankles, her fingers clenching and unclenching spasmodically, anticipating the time when they'd be wrapped around her enemy's neck. His presence was a burning, blackened mote in her mind, as sure and steady as the northern star; she would find him wherever he tried to flee. But it seemed as if he knew better than to try; whether laying a trap or simply cornered, he awaited their arrival just ahead.

 

She slammed through the swinging double doors behind the desk, heedless of what might be waiting for her; he had already tried his best to contain her and come up wanting. More junk crowded the walls uselessly, irrelevant save for the fact that it was in her way; she registered dimply that she was in an operating theater. But it was more than that: her night eyes took in the tiny details of stonework and sculpted moldings in the corners, the slight rise at the far end of the room. They stood now in what had once been a chapel. It was unsurprising, yet almost pitiable, that he continued to cling to the defenses that had already failed him.

 

_ "Nicolescu,"  _ she breathed, putting every ounce of implacable menace she possessed into the name. 

 

He lifted his head, then, and she realized that he had been in plain sight all the while; her fury had blinded her to the evidence of her own eyes. He stood before a sink at the far wall, and turned to face her, a syringe in his hands. She tensed at the sight of it, almost wishing that he'd lunge for her; but, after sparing a glance over her shoulder, he merely set it down on the lip of the counter and folded his hands. He did not seem frightened, or even angry; the weariness in his drawn, sallow face was unmistakable, and made her grit her teeth. The  _ least  _ he could do was cower; remorse would be even better.

 

"No further brave words, doctor?" Radu growled from behind her, a sneering emphasis on the title. "No more  _ demands? _ "

 

Nicolescu sighed, his shoulders slumping; but he ignored the taunt in favor of meeting Michelle's gaze. "I can offer no excuses," he said quietly. "I can only explain."

 

"You meant to bargain with her. You meant to treat my fledgling like chattel."

 

"I chose poorly," Nicolescu agreed, his eyes never leaving Michelle. "This need not be this way. You, I think, might be able to imagine what my research could accomplish--"

 

"Your  _ research? _ " Michelle could not believe he had the temerity to continue in that vein after everything he'd done. "Then here's a bit of data for you, doctor:  _ you couldn't make me hurt Rebecca. _ _ No  _ one can. And you can't get away from this."

 

The shock on his face seemed genuine enough to make her pause for a half a moment, but she knew that he had undoubtedly had centuries of practice at dissembling. Even as she stalked towards him, his features smoothed, and he once more assumed the character of a man awaiting the inevitable.

 

The brief crack of gunfire was enough to make her start and whip her head around to determine its source, but Radu was not so easily distracted. He padded forward, angling away from her; there was now no way Nicolescu would be exiting the room the way they had entered. She forced her attention back to the situation at hand, refusing to think of what might be happening elsewhere in the building. Becky was as safe as Michelle had been able to make her; if she wasn't once Michelle had finished here, there would at least be a reckoning.

 

She continued to approach Nicolescu, her legs so stiff it seemed as if they obeyed some one else's directive. She wanted to  _ leap _ , to cross the distance between them in an inky swirl of darkness; she could almost feel his flesh tearing beneath her nails, could practically taste the corruption of his blood filling her mouth. But she could not bring herself to do it, not quite yet. She wanted him to grovel, to beg her to spare him; she wanted him to experience some measure of the terror and humiliation he had subjected her to before she granted him the mercy of oblivion. Whatever she did to him, it wouldn't take long enough.

 

"Perhaps we should invite him home, pretty one," Radu crooned. She was so caught up in the moment that it no longer startled her that he divined her thoughts so easily. "As he has so kindly extended his hospitality to you, it is only meet that we reciprocate."

 

Her lips skinned back from her teeth of their own volition. Agreement danced on the tip of her tongue; she knew that she need only speak the word, and Nicolescu would find himself the recipient of torments she could scarcely imagine. Days, weeks, perhaps even years; an experiment of their own.

 

Torturing him to death.

 

Her stomach clenched as the reality of the situation struck home. She wanted... oh, so many things; the fact that the descent into sadism so extreme she had not imagined it even in the blackest, bloodiest intensity of her fury was one of the only ones within her grasp--

 

\--ceased to matter at all, as Becky's ringing screams tore through the pregnant stillness.

 

Michelle whirled on her heel, prepared to go to Becky's aid, but a guttural snarl from Radu told her that Nicolescu had attempted something once she'd taken her eyes from him. She wasted a precious moment on indecision, torn; shouts, more screams, and a shot decided her. As she hurried back to the doors, the sound of pounding footsteps came rapidly down the hallway. But even as she reached the entrance, Becky burst through the doors, her tear stained eyed wide with unspeakable panic and blood staining her forehead; a heartbeat later something else tackled her to the floor.

 

Michelle threw herself into the melee with a vengeance, clawing wildly at whatever it was that had dared to lay hands on her sister. She got an arm around Becky's waist, lifting her bodily away from the frenzied attacker. Becky clung to her with strength born of hysteria as she blocked the vampire with a straight-armed shove. She couldn't figure out how to defend them without disentangling herself from Becky--but then Radu was beside her, seizing it roughly and hauling it away. He wrapped a hand around the intruder's throat, twisting his neck cruelly in preparation for some further violence.

 

And Nicolescu laughed.

 

Michelle looked up, shocked at the incongruity of the sound; Radu too was startled enough to cease his attack, though he retained a firm grip on his quarry. She turned, placing herself between Becky and the other vampires as much as she could while still keeping them in view... and Nicolescu laughed. It was a rich, full-throated sound, only mildly tinged with tiredness.

 

She watched with numb incomprehension as Nicolescu reached into his breast pocket and removed a small cloth. "Oh, my," he chuckled, as he removed his glasses and began to polish them. Replacing them on his face, he shook his head, grinning as if utterly charmed by the ridiculousness of the situation. "Oh, Michelle, he wanted only to help," he said with a conspiratorial smile.

 

_"What?"_

 

"You hungered," he replied simply. "I thought that I had broken him of such things, but, well." Nicolescu shrugged, as if admitting a trifling mistake. "A fledgling will always seek to aid its master."

 

Becky still clung tightly to her side; she nearly sent them both tumbling to the floor as Michelle spun to regard Radu's captive. He still struggled against Radu's grip, eyes rolling wildly as his fangs snapped in futile rage; a pale, sallow thing that seemed even less human to her disbelieving than the monster that restrained it. "You're  _ insane! _ " she cried.

 

"I found him wandering," Nicolescu continued, as if she hadn't spoken. "I thought it better to put him to work, rather than leave him to abuse the populace." He leaned back against the counter with another shrug. "You may wish to refrain from doing him any injury, if the bond remains so powerful," he added in Radu's direction.

 

Unable to believe what she was hearing, Michelle's gaze darted back and forth between the seemingly unperturbed doctor and the savage, frenzied thing Radu held at bay. He behaved as if he were utterly convinced Michelle was responsible for the strange vampire, which was  _ impossible. _ Even if she had not yet had a chance to put it into practice, she had learned the gruesome lesson of the previous night very well; it was written on her soul in letters of acid.

 

But she had not always known it.

 

Becky became dead weight in her arms as her vision narrowed into the precise tunnel-vision of the predator, and fixed on his face. The high cheekbones, the long, curly dark hair... she gasped, choking, as the memory set her brain afire. He'd looked much better then, so fashionable, so falsely fearsome as she lured him back to the opera for an assignation he'd only thought he'd desired; she could feel the throb of the heavy metal the night club had played in her bones as the recollection unfurled. She'd thought she'd killed him, had been so sick with grief and self-loathing that she'd spewed up most of the blood she'd stolen from him; she'd been  _ sure _ she'd killed him.

 

And yet here he was now, a broken, crazed monster that craved her approbation so fiercely he had attempted to feed her her own sister.

 

"You will not ransom your spawn with lies," Radu hissed, giving the hapless vampire a brutal shake in an attempt to quell his struggles.

 

"No lies," Nicolescu replied mildly.

 

Radu's lip curled in disdain, but his gaze flicked to Michelle, and his eyes narrowed at whatever he saw in her face. She knew she should say something, but could not fathom what; her tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth, her own disgust and shock keeping her silent. His scowl deepened, but he made no comment; with a quick, precise movement, he snapped the vampire's neck.

 

Michelle fell to her knees as if her own spine had been severed. She had a vague sense of Becky's legs becoming entangled with her own as she collapsed, but the wrenching sensation that overwhelmed her was too enormous for physical considerations to intrude upon. She gasped, fighting desperately for air as her fingers scrabbled against the tiles. It hadn't been like this in the alley, it hadn't been like this with the other--but this was  _ loss _ , this was  _ deprivation, _ this was  _ impairment,  _ and it took everything she had to keep from drowning in it. The hunter's tunnel vision collapsed into a hazy white wall, and she ground her teeth together as her balance deserted her. The sharp pain of her fangs shredding her lower lip was a welcome intrusion, some small truth she could seize hold of.

 

" _ Don't!  _ Oh,  _ God! _ "

 

"Now now," Nicolescu replied, and the fact that he could be so callous with Becky when she was so obviously terrified was enough to get Michelle to raise her head. The sight of her wrapped tightly in his arms, shaking with dread, was almost enough to galvanize her into action, but her legs would not obey her; she collapsed awkwardly onto her haunches.

 

Radu flung the broken corpse of her progeny aside, a trifling inconvenience, and advanced a single step before Nicolescu's fingers were wrapped around Becky's throat. "I think we are all aware that hostages are only harmed when demands go unmet," the doctor said mildly.

 

"Then have done with it," Radu growled, but made no further move. "You will not leave here intact."

 

"But I am afraid I must," Nicolescu replied, easing his way cautiously along the wall. "You may never understand the importance of what I do, but I cannot forsake it to allow you your vengeance."

 

"Michelle," Becky whimpered, pleading. Nicolescu's fingers tightened on her throat; Michelle staggered upright at the choked grunt her sister made in response, but stumbled to one knee.

 

"Only let me leave," Nicolescu continued. "I have no further use for her. She will be set free as soon as I am secure; but she must accompany me."

 

"You," Michelle grated, barely able to force the words past her aching jaws. "You act as if you serve some higher cause, but you're no better than a trapped rat once you're cornered."

 

"Even so," the doctor agreed. He had made it slightly past the middle of the room, despite Becky's feeble efforts to drag her feet. Michelle's vision swam once more as she tried to judge the distance; she could see the red prints his fingers made on Becky's neck. She was fast, but she didn't think anything was fast enough to do what needed to be done; nevertheless she gathered herself, hoping against hope that she could fly faster than Nicolescu could crush her sister's throat.

 

"While you indulge in distressing my fledgling," Radu interrupted, "you overlook the fact that I care not what becomes of the woman." Folding his arms behind his back, fangs bared in threat and promise, he stepped around a wheeled cart and once more began to approach.

 

"No!" Michelle cried, unable to countenance such betrayal; she could not have chosen a poorer savior.

 

"Even now, your child cries out for her," Nicolescu said, a nervous tremble in his voice. "You would see her own flesh and blood slain before her very eyes?"

 

"Even so," Radu repeated, his grin widening obscenely; his pace never slowed.

 

"Master,  _ please! _ " She stretched out a hand in supplication, beseeching him with every fiber of her being. "Master..."

 

"Be still," he told her quietly, his eyes never leaving Nicolescu. "You are young yet, to fear such a one as this; one who could never have held you had you not been delivered unto him." Another pace; Nicolescu cringed, his grip tightening around Becky. "Some of us are weak, my pretty one; some of us are  _ cowards,  _ that need hide behind holy walls, lest their sins seek them out." He stopped, his chin lifting with imperious disdain. "Some of us," he hissed, "would never  _ dare _ not to yield their prey to their betters."

 

Nicolescu's mouth hung slack; it was impossible to guess at what expression the sunglasses hid, but he faced Radu like a snake fascinated by a mongoose. Michelle watched him carefully as the moment lengthened; his fingers still dug into Becky's throat, his arm pinning her against tightly against his body. She sagged against him, dead weight, but Michelle had the unhappy suspicion that it was more sheer exhaustion than an attempt to hinder him. She shifted fractionally, gathering herself as best she could without doing anything to disturb the moment. Radu seemed to hold Nicolescu spellbound, both of them locked in some private contest whose rules she could not fathom.

 

It didn't matter. Nicolescu was enrapt, entirely focused on Radu... and, as Michelle watched, his grip on Becky loosened.

 

She lunged forward like hell unleashed, half in shadow as she flickered across the distance that separated. She distantly registered the cry of "Be  _ still! _ " as her nails sank into Nicolescu's wrists, the force of her charge driving all three of them back against the wall. She did not even have time to pray that she was doing the right thing as she wrenched Nicolescu's arms apart. Becky staggered against her with a strangled croak, and Michelle could do nothing but shove her aside as Nicolescu fought back, howling in pain and rage.

 

He scrambled upright, trying to shove her away; her hands tightened on his wrists until she could feel the bones creak, his flesh shredding beneath her nails, but it was all she could do to hold him back. He hissed, exposing yellowed fangs, and snapped viciously at her face. She flinched away instinctively, and the shift in her balance allowed him to thrust her away.

 

She stumbled back, her feet tangling on something she ardently hoped wasn't Becky, but she managed to retain her grip on one of his wrists. She yanked his arm savagely, hauling him back; she scarcely knew what to do now that battle was joined, but she would be damned before she'd see him escape. But he spun with the force of her efforts, slashing her with his nails, and the sharp, raw,  _ agony  _ of her shoulder drove any further considerations from her mind.

 

She pounced on him, her weight and the strength of her leap bearing him to the floor in an unruly tangle of limbs. They thrashed wildly, both fighting for purchase, for leverage to use against the other. He dug his fingers into her injured shoulder, the exquisite torment almost too much to bear, but the purity of her rage and hatred drove her relentlessly. A swipe of her hand sent his glasses flying and laid his cheek open to the bone. She straddled him, holding him flat to the floor with one hand as she took a moment to savor the sight of his rotten eyes, the paralyzing, excruciating knowledge of impending death that disfigured his face.

 

Then she struck.

 

Her fangs tore the wizened flesh of his throat as easily as ancient parchment. He screamed as best he could, a gurgling, indistinct shout of denial as she burrowed against his neck, widening the wounds with a feral joy. His blood was as vile as she had anticipated; fever hot, yet unlike anything human, the burning copper of it coated her mouth with foulness. She forced herself to choke it down, regardless; foul as it was, this was the taste of victory.

 

His claws raked her back, tearing her dress and the skin beneath it to ribbons, but she paid it no heed as she savored his defeat. If this was what it meant to be a vampire, there were compensations; he would never harm her, harm Becky, harm  _ anyone  _ ever again, and his increasingly feeble attempts to resist were a more ample compensation than any of his other victims had ever received. Yet there was no joy in the conquest; not even the hot, revivifying rush of sustenance. Digging her elbows into his ribs, she slowly worked her hands up to his neck, fighting him every inch of the way. Never releasing the grip with her teeth, her fingers found the wrinkled flesh, wedging their way around his throat.

 

When his neck came apart like wet tissue, it was almost anticlimactic.

 

Michelle straightened slowly, blinking her eyes furiously. Her head swam, and she put a hand down to brace herself against the floor. Nicolescu's body still twitched, but only with aftershocks; dumb meat too stupid to realize yet that it was dead.

 

She looked down at his gore-streaked corpse, and felt nothing. No pride in the kill; no disgust at what she'd done to him; no sorrow for his passing; no pleasure in his defeat. She had simply handled things; he had pushed and pushed until she had had no other options to pursue. She regretted dimly that it had come to this, but only insofar as it was an inconvenience, a danger. She had slaughtered and devoured a creature that was so old she could scarcely comprehend it, and the only feeling she could muster was a disaffected weariness.

 

But she had saved Becky.

 

Michelle rose to her feet in a single, graceful movement, and closed her eyes at the frightened gasp from behind her. She was still hyper-aware, and that pathetic little noise sounded almost too much like the cry of her next victim to be borne. She glanced briefly at Radu, who stood motionless, his face set in grim, unreadable lines; she knew better than to look for help from that direction.

 

Carefully, exercising every ounce of control she possessed to make sure her movements were as weak and human as she could make them, she stepped away from Nicolescu's corpse and turned. Becky sprawled on the floor where Michelle had thrown her, propped up on her elbows; her mouth moved spasmodically, as if she struggled desperately to speak, but could not. It was all Michelle could do not to close her eyes against the sight of her sister so reduced. "It's okay now," she said quietly. Becky flinched, and Michelle reached out a hand to comfort her, but she scrambled backwards a few ungainly inches.

 

"It's okay now," she repeated, taking a cautious step forward. Becky scrambled away more violently this time, using the wall to haul herself upright. She crouched, her hands raised defensively, and Michelle could have wept. She stopped, her head lowered. "You're safe now, Becky," she said, but could not resist another glance at Radu as she said the words. "No one's going to hurt you."

 

" _ No!  _ No, I--" Becky's eyes were wide and terrified, her gaze flicking around the room with frantic intensity. "I--Michelle, I--I h-have to go now," she said weakly, edging away. "I just--I have to be going."

 

"Okay," Michelle responded soothingly. "Okay. Let's get out of here," she said, unnerved by the blank incomprehension in Becky's eyes. "We'll go together." She extended a hand once more; Rebecca screamed, covering her head with her arms. Michelle frowned, increasingly uncertain how to proceed; it was obvious that Becky was in shock, but she could not see how to lead her to safety if she was so skittish and fearful. The she caught sight of her own wrist, and knew why Becky screamed.

 

Nicolescu's blood gleamed black in the moonlight, and Michelle was covered in it, greasy against her skin. Becky saw that; had seen how Michelle had gotten that way. Had their positions been reversed... had she had to watch her own sister  _ eat  _ someone... 

 

...she wouldn't have screamed. Not any more; she no longer possessed the luxury of that kind of innocence. But Becky did; or had. Michelle backed away from her, grieved beyond measure that Becky finally acknowledged her as a threat.

 

"I had to protect you, Becky," she pleaded. "He was going to  _ hurt  _ you." Becky merely cowered. "It was the only way."

 

"Th-thanks, Michelle," Becky responded brightly, peeking out from behind her arms; there was no sanity in that voice. "But I'm, um. I'm just going to get out of here, okay?"

 

Before she had a chance to respond, Becky darted towards the door. Out of the corner of her eye, Michelle saw Radu tense, the instinct to chase gripping him; she turned, preparing to tackle him if he gave in to it, for all the good it might do, but his feet remained planted. She turned back to Becky's staggering flight just in time to see Nicolescu's hand snake out and encircle her ankle.

 

" _ No! _ " Michelle screamed, but was almost drowned out by Becky's despairing wail as she crashed to the floor. Almost too fast for the eye to follow, Nicolescu rolled on top of her, obscuring her thrashing body with his own. Michelle was already moving, her fingers curved into claws; but even as she reached out to sink them into Nicolescu's back, Radu interposed himself.

 

He seized Nicolescu with his left hand; Becky moaned softly, and went abruptly still as Radu hoisted Nicolescu into the air. The doctor's limbs twitched, spasms that might have been a feeble attempt at self-defense; Radu paid them no heed as he set about his gory, precise task. His long, thin fingers burrowed into what was left of Nicolescu's neck, digging, searching despite the liquid gurgles of protest. His hand clenched as he finally found what he sought; with a quick, smooth jerk, a few segments of Nicolescu's spine were unreeled, gleaming wet and gristly. Radu worked a thumbnail laboriously between two of the vertebrae; with one last, sharp squeeze, the doctor's movements stilled.

 

Michelle scarcely noticed; the instant she was certain she could move without interfering, she was at Becky's side, crouching beside her. "Becky? Becky, come on, talk to me!" Her head lolled loosely on her neck as Michelle slid a hand beneath her shoulders and lifted her into her lap, but her rapid, thready heartbeat gave testament that she still lived. She muttered indistinctly as Michelle stroked her face; she must have hit her head when she fell. But she quailed when she felt the wet, sticky warmth along her sister's jawline; could not stifle a horrified, heartbroken moan when her fingers found the ragged, gaping wounds in Becky's neck, Nicolescu's last ditch grab for sustenance.

 

"Come."

 

She wished she could kill him again. She wished she could kill them  _ all. _ She wished she'd killed herself when she had the chance. 

 

"Come."

 

Nothing would ever pay for this. Nothing would ever make it right. Becky had only wanted to help. Nothing,  _ nothing _ , would ever be good enough.

 

_"Come."_

 

The rough jerk on her arm finally broke through her reverie; she snatched her hand back and snarled, clutching Becky protectively to her chest. Radu's lip curled, baring a fang in annoyance, but he let her be. "This is unsafe."

 

"Radu, he  _ bit  _ her!"

 

"Would you leave her to burn?" Shocked by the suggestion, Michelle gaped up at him. He met her stare for stare until she finally dropped her gaze, reaching up to stroke Becky's bangs. She looked almost peaceful, if one ignored the blood staining her face; something Michelle had recently had a great deal of practice in.

 

But Nicolescu had bitten her.

 

She flinched at the crash of glass as Radu turned and swept the contents of one of the counters onto the floor, but merely huddled around Becky more tightly as he proceeded to do the same service for the rest of the room. How was she going to explain this? What would happen once Becky came to? Her chin sank down against her chest. For the first time in the nights that had followed her death, she longed for the timeless oblivion of daylight; no thoughts, no emotions, no awareness. Anything. Anything had to be better than this.

 

The sharp smell of bleach burned her nostrils, and she finally glanced up from Becky's face. The room was a wreck of broken glassware and equipment, the floor stained with puddles of unidentifiable liquids. As she watched, Radu finished shoving Nicolescu's corpse into the center of the room, beside that of her poor, mad offspring. He met her gaze commandingly; she nodded, unable to do anything else once she realized what he meant to accomplish.

 

"C'mon, Becky, we're gonna get out of here, just like you wanted," she whispered, a failed attempt to disguise the catch in her voice. She slipped an arm beneath Becky's knees, and lifted her gently into her arms; Becky made no sound, not the slightest indication of wakefulness. Michelle couldn't remember what it had been like, save for the inescapable tyranny of dawn; perhaps this was perfectly normal, and she had merely been insensible while she experienced it.

 

Maybe.

 

She picked her way over to Radu, Becky no burden at all, and stood beside him, unable to look at his face; she did not think she could stand to see any expression there. She did not see how the spark was struck, but she felt the first bellowing gust of heat wash against her face as the flames leapt up, devouring the remains of the carnage; a moment later, they were gone, as if they had never been.


	8. Chapter 8

The great grey stones of Castle Vladislas were as impassive and impressive as they had ever been; though smooth and mortared in the interior of the ancient building, their overwhelming bulk still betokened ominous, oppressive impenetrability. Michelle could easily remember how intimidating, how inescapable she had initially found being within their confines. Yet now, as she ran a palm along the staircase's retaining wall, preternaturally sensitive to the faint traces of moisture that oozed from the stone, she could summon no feeling beyond a bleak, weary dismay.

She remembered her first trip up these stairs just as well, and the memory should have inspired an equal amount of unhappiness. She had trudged up a seemingly endless flight of tightly spiraled stairs, their centers worn smooth and treacherous by uncounted generations of feet, in an attempt to learn the truth of a vampire's legendary weakness to sunlight. Radu had come to her, as she had stood behind the crenellations that topped the tower. There in the rising dawn, he had told her half-truths, had made cautious evasions; there, he had coaxed her into the act that had damned her more surely than anything else she might have done.

She could remember the taste of his blood, cool and rich upon her tongue.

He stood beside her now, leaning against the wall. Though there was little room upon the landing, he made sure she had space enough to herself without seeming to; carrion courtesy. His arms were folded, spidery fingers wrapped around his elbows; though his lank hair obscured any expression he might have worn, his eyes were liquid in the fading darkness as he waited. Watching.

She turned away, for once not fearful of presenting him her back. What waited for her beyond the narrow, rough-hewn doorway was more terrifying than any danger he had ever posed her. Becky leaned against one of the crenellations, her weight resting on her forearms. One might have thought she was merely enjoying the bucolic view spread out beneath her, anticipating the glorious colors of the sunrise that was soon to unfold, were it not for the tension and fear writ large in every line of her body. Michelle had told her only that she must wait, and she had accepted the dictum with a numb, too-easy compliance.

There was nothing she could do; and yet she must do something.

"There are many things that might be done." Radu's hoarse voice was so quiet it might have been beyond the perception of human hearing; Becky gave no indication that she had heard, not even a startled twitch to match Michelle's own. She had thought this might be another lesson, another chance to drive home the cruel truth of the bitter statements he'd flung at her in the past; the calm offer of options was the last thing she had expected.

She half-turned, just enough to bring his motionless form into the periphery of her vision. "But it can't be undone."

He lifted his head, and for a moment she knew hope. That there might be some well-guarded secret that he had kept from her for his own ends, something that might provide salvation for Becky, if not herself... she would gladly have traded her own servitude for it, and she believed he knew it as well. Yet even that vague prospect was snatched from her as he lowered his head once more. "No."

She looked down, and attempted to distract herself by picking at a splinter of damp wood wedged into the stones of the doorway. There had been a door here once, long since rotted away; protection from the elements, from enemies, from the incursions of the world beyond the wall, from all the things that might have distressed and bedeviled its long dead inhabitants.

Such a ridiculous fantasy. Yet a tempting one, all the same.

She straightened, rolling her shoulders back in an attempt to infuse herself with confidence she did not feel, and stepped once more into the doorway. Her hands clenched into fists as she attempted to steel her nerves; she had almost convinced herself to take that first, terrible step when she was distracted by the soft rustle of movement behind her.

Radu had risen from his indolent sprawl, one hand half-extended to her; she looked down at it with alien incomprehension. He opened his mouth as if to speak, and she raised her eyes to meet his gaze. The deep, piteous _sympathy _she found there was almost too much to be borne; yet if she could manage to do that, she could manage to do anything. She stared at him, slowly forcing her face into an expressionless mask, and waited to hear what he would say.

He withdrew his hand, wrapping his arms tightly around himself once more, and looked away. She wanted to weep. She knew that if she asked, he would act; would allow her to hate him for whatever took place on the parapet.

But that was a burden best carried alone. She had earned it, after all.

She turned from him, and paced slowly through the door.

Becky gave no indication that she had noticed her approach, but she did not appear at all startled when Michelle spoke from just behind her. "How are you feeling?"

Becky swallowed, licking her lips, but would not raise her eyes from the view. "I'm okay."

"Good," Michelle responded, stepping forward to stand beside her. The countryside was beautiful; she marvelled once again that such a pastoral landscape could conceal such endemic, suppurating evil. It was good for Becky to see beauty; to know that not everything in her life was servitude, violence, and horror. It would make her feel better.

She turned her head to regard her sister. Becky was beaten and worn, her face pinched with tension and pain, but for all that, still recognizable; still herself. Michelle wondered if Becky had felt this way about her; knew that she must have. It was hard to believe that someone who had gone through--was currently experiencing--such an irrevocable, life-altering change could see so unaffected by it, but Becky looked as if a long shower and a longer nap would see her good as new.

It helped that the terrible wounds in her throat were on the other side.

She didn't seem to notice them, or couldn't bring herself to react to them if she did; she surely knew what they meant, even if she did not entirely remember receiving them. Though some of the hazy madness had left her eyes, she was still utterly calm, agreeable, answering what she was asked, doing what she was told. Even an inadvertent glimpse of Radu as he had come up the stairs had not seemed to ruffle her; she had merely turned to look over the ramparts, her eerie placidity utterly undisturbed.

Was it shock? Had she reached the point where her mind simply refused to process what was happening to it? Or was it something far more sinister, some defective taint of Nicolescu's? Michelle could not tell, could not even begin to guess; and if Radu held an opinion on the subject, he had not bothered to venture it.

Not that she had asked. This was a family matter.

Though she would have felt it prickling across her skin even in the depths of the castle, Michelle could see the first faint hint of dawn beginning to grey the eastern horizon. She raised a hand to her mouth to stifle a noise that might have been a sob. She hadn't realized it had grown so very early.

"I guess we'll have to go in soon," Becky said quietly.

Michelle couldn't bear to look at her, shoved her own hands against the parapet stones and tried her best to mimic Becky's own casual pose so that she wouldn't have to. She'd half-hoped... but it didn't matter what she'd hoped. None of them would come to pass. The only question that remained was how much of the damage she'd be able to repair.

"Don't be silly," she whispered.

She couldn't do it. But she had to.

"You can walk down into the village once it's light. Someone there will help you; they're nice people." The words fell from her mouth like stones. "Or you can wait here, if you want to. I can... take you back. To Bucharest." The more she spoke, the easier it became to continue. "I understand if you don't, though. But I'll stay with you as long as I can."

Her voice nearly broke on the last sentence, and she forced herself to look up at Becky, praying that none of what she felt showed on her face. Becky regarded her with a flat, blank look, and Michelle's resolve nearly crumbled beneath the intensity of that dubious regard; but Becky finally looked away, nodding vaguely. "Okay." But her gaze stole back to Michelle, watching her carefully from the corner of her eye. "I... I'd like that."

Michelle went to her, then, standing behind her and laying her hands on Becky's shoulders, rubbing gently. "I know this is awful, but..." She bit her lip, unable to continue for a moment. "It really is like the movies," she said finally, squeezing Becky reassuringly. "Nicolescu didn't... you're just hurt. You're not... you're going to be fine, Becky."

The sun had climbed high enough to paint everything with a hazy wash of uncertain light; it picked out the tips of Becky's hair, the delicate curve of her lashes as she turned slightly to regard Michelle over her shoulder. "Promise?"

She was so lovely.

Michelle shut her eyes against that painful beauty, but was not yet dead enough inside to be unable to nod. "Promise," she breathed.

Becky nodded loosely, resettling her gaze on the landscape. "Okay."

Michelle leaned forward, gently laying her forehead against the back of Becky's head, still massaging her shoulders. Nicolescu had insisted that things need not be this way with his last breath, but in the end, even he had reverted to the savagery he claimed they were capable of rising above. Had he been able to hold to his principles, they would not be here; Michelle would not extend the misery by attempting to hold onto hers any longer. The only way to win was not to play; she would not let her beautiful, brave sister be forced to learn those rules.

She could not even regret it. No sorrow, no grief; pragmatism. Pure, logical thinking. Not horror. Not failure. Not self-loathing.

Pragmatism. That was all.

Becky gave a shuddering, choking gasp; for a moment Michelle thought she might have pressed too hard, but when she lifted her head, she realized how much time she had spent lost in her thoughts. True daybreak was still a quarter of an hour off, but the sun had finally crested the horizon, the first of its yellow rays spilling over the horizon.

"It hurts, Shelly," Becky whimpered.

"Your eyes are just tired," she replied, raising a hand to stroke Becky's hair. "It's been a long night." She trailed her hand down, caressing the back of Becky's neck, feeling the raised knobs of the spine with her thumb. She slipped both hands around her neck, gently kneading the tight muscles, and then leaned forward to whisper in her ear.

"I love you, Becky."

Mercy. It was mercy.

Quick as a thought, she did as she had seen Radu do: her thumbnails drove into the soft flesh of Becky's neck, wedging between two of the vertebrae. Becky gasped, stiffening against her, and Michelle pressed down with supernatural force until she felt them separate with a wet pop; Becky sagged against her as she felt the gristly interior separate. She carefully withdrew her thumbs from the wound, circling a hand around Becky's throat to feel the rapid, thready beats of her pulse; even as she did, they slowed beneath her palm.

Stopped.

It was done.

She held Becky to her tightly, allowing herself one last brief moment of the feel of her heat, the faint smell of her perfume as she buried her face in her hair. But the sun was rising ever higher, and there was one last thing to be done.

Michelle gently lowered Becky to the floor, laying her out with aching tenderness. She took Becky's wrists and crossed them over her chest, carefully arranging her limbs. Becky's face was still dirty, still crusted with dried blood; she wished suddenly, bitterly, that she'd found a way to let Becky wash her face. Not that it mattered now, but... it would have been _nice._

Refusing to allow herself to be undone by such a simple failing, she unsnapped the lapels of Becky's leather jacket. She remembered the trip into town to buy it; their mother had been furious, had insisted it made Becky look like a gangster. That had never mattered to her, though; she had loved the coat enough to hang onto it for nearly twenty years. Michelle raised the collar, arranging it just beneath Becky's hair; with the wounds thus obscured, she might have been sleeping, exhausted after a rough day.

The light stung her skin now, an aching, almost irresistable need to join with it dancing along her nerve endings; but she couldn't do it now. Not yet.

There were things yet to be done.

"I'm going to try to make it worth it, Becky," she whispered; the corpse made no response. She bent down to lay a kiss upon its forehead. That done, she rose, and made her way to the door without a backward glance.

Radu waited for her, peering out from the shadows, his face set in lines of what might have been pain. She felt a brief spark of anger at that, that he would _dare_ to pretend to understand what this meant to her... but, she realized, who better? She wondered if he had ever spared a moment's indecision over what he had done. She wondered if he ever regretted Stefan's death.

She wondered if he thought it had been mercy.

She passed beneath the arch of the doorway, the roof providing cool relief from the sun's bright bite, and spared herself a moment to close her eyes and revel in it. Soon she would find the sweet release of daytime oblivion; when she arose again, the world would be a different place, and she would be glad of it.

She opened her eyes to find Radu still watching her carefully. Wordlessly, she extended a hand. He moved to stand beside her; she took his arm, and followed him down into darkness.


End file.
